Produced by Curtis Weyant, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
TYPES OF CHILDREN'S LITERATURE
A COLLECTION OF
THE WORLD'S BEST LITERATURE
FOR CHILDREN
FOR USE IN COLLEGES, NORMAL SCHOOLS
AND LIBRARY SCHOOLS
COLLECTED AND EDITED
BY
WALTER BARNES, A.M.
Application of the world's knowledge to the world's needs is the
guiding aim of this publishing house, and it is in conformity to this
aim that _Types of Children's Literature_ is published. There is
need of helpful direction for parents and teachers who wish to place
within reach of every child the beauty, wisdom, and knowledge stored
up in the world's best literature for children. The domain is so
vast, so rich, and so varied that a single volume which presents
specimens of all the different types for study and analysis by older
readers and for reading by the children themselves, may hope to make
easy and natural for children the entrance to the pleasant land of
books
PREFACE
This collection of specimens of children's literature has evolved
itself naturally and, as it were, inevitably out of the editor's
experience in teaching classes in children's literature in normal
school and college, and it is published in the belief that other
teachers of this subject find the same need of such a book that the
editor has experienced. For it is obvious that if we are to conduct
classes in children's literature either for general culture or for
specific training of teachers, we must have specimens of children's
literature readily accessible to the students. We must bring students
to a knowledge and appreciation of any author, period, or type by
having them study representative selections, and this principle
applies as logically to courses in children's literature as to
courses in other kinds of literature.
_Types of Children's Literature_ is intended to provide students
of the subject with a single-volume anthology of prose and poetry
illustrative of the different types, styles, interests, periods,
authors, etc., of writings for children. There are, of course, many
collections of specimens of children's literature; but they are all
made as reading books for children and, consequently, are
unsatisfactory, in some important respect or other, as source books.
Moreover, these collections are published in several volumes and
contain much that is mediocre and trivial. As far as the editor has
been able to discover, there is but a single one-volume collection,
and that collection, having been compiled solely for juvenile
readers, is impracticable as a text for college and normal school
classes. In teaching classes in children's literature the present
editor has had to use, as the only possible text, such sets of
literary readers as the _Heart of Oak_ series or such miniature
libraries as the ten-volume _The Children's Hour_ or the eight-
volume _Children's Classics_. This procedure has been both
expensive and inconvenient for teacher and students, besides not
supplying some of the material desirable in any symmetrical outline
of study.
In compiling the book the editor kept in mind several guiding aims.
Foremost was the wish to include in the collection at least one
selection--and that a masterpiece--of each type and kind of
children's literature in the English language. The different species
of prose and poetry; the various kinds of stories, such as fables,
myths, and fairy stories; the fundamental forms of discourse, such as
narration, description, the sketch, the essay, the oration, letters--
nearly all the molds, so to speak, into which the molten literary
stream has flowed all these types are represented by the choicest
specimens in the range of children's literature.
A careful inspection of the selections in this volume will reveal the
rich variety of the material. Specimens are to be found of folk
literature and modern literature, of the romantic, of the realistic,
of the crude and naive, of the artistic and sophisticated, of the
humorous and the pathetic. The editor has tried to find specimens
presenting as many themes, as many interests, as many emotions as
possible, characteristic specimens of the most important authors for
children, of all the civilizations that have produced literatures
which have become a part of the English-speaking child's heritage.
The collection contains literature for the little child and
literature for the boy or girl in the early 'teens, and it ranges
from primitive times down to this present decade. Moreover, since a
considerable part of the body of children's literature is made up of
original selections made over for children, a few masterpieces of
translations, re-tellings, abridgments, and reproductions have been
included.
The editor hopes that he has allotted a proportionate and equitable
amount of space and emphasis to each type, department, and section of
the collection. He had it in mind, at least, to give as many pages
over to poetry, for example, in proportion to prose, as many pages to
fairy stories, for example, in proportion to myths, as would indicate
roughly the average child's interests. If this proportion is not due
and just, as the editor sometimes fears, it is to be hoped that
critics will realize the web of difficulties in which such a task as
this is entangled.
A word as to the classification and nomenclature. The editor realizes
that this is neither original nor accurate. It is certainly not
scientific, as the types overlap here and there, and the names are
based partly on form and partly on content. But classification and
class names were indispensable in a book of this nature, and it
seemed a better policy to employ the classification and the names
already firmly established in common use than to attempt to subject
to a new system of scientific terms that which is by nature not
amenable to scientific laws and scientific precision. The
classification appears only in the Contents; it does not stand forth
in the book itself.
It should be said, further, that the order in which the different
types are placed in the book is more or less arbitrary, having been
determined largely by the succession in which children take them up
from year to year, beginning with the simpler forms and more childish
themes, and somewhat by the principle of similarity and contrast in
the types themselves. Needless to say, teachers will change the order
in which the species and specimens are studied in accordance with any
well-defined plan of their own.
A distinct service has been rendered, the editor hopes, by presenting
the definitive and authoritative versions of all the selections
given. This has meant a painstaking reading of every line in every
selection and the collation with editions that are trustworthy. Every
student of children's literature knows that it has been almost
impossible to find exact readings, and that most selections have been
distorted and garbled to suit the purposes of editors. No changes
from the originals have here been made except to abridge in a few
instances where it seemed imperative in a book intended for reading
and discussion in classes of both sexes. The editions used and the
changes made are given in the Notes.
The problems involved in selecting the best versions of certain
stories and the best translations from other languages have been
difficult. In general, the editor endeavored to choose the form which
seemed to have the highest literary value. In cases where two
translations seemed to possess equal merit, both are represented.
Every specimen of literature in this collection is a complete unit or
is at least a section easily detached--like an Uncle Remus or an
Arabian Nights story--from its original setting. This principle
precluded the inclusion of extracts from such children's classics as
_Gulliver's Travels_, _Robinson Crusoe_, and _Treasure
Island_. No survey of children's literature is complete without an
examination of such books as these; but they can easily be supplied
in inexpensive editions and used as supplementary to this collection.
It is evident that not every masterpiece of writing for children
could be included in this volume; but it is believed that no
selection has been included that is not a masterpiece. This belief is
based primarily on the fact that most of the specimens have been
chosen and approved by generation after generation of children,
culled out from the light and worthless as by an unerring hand,
through the most pragmatic of tests.
The only distinct type of children's literature not represented in
this collection is the drama, which is omitted because the editor was
not able to find a dramatic unit that would satisfy the ideal he had
in mind: that it be dramatic, that it be literary, that it be brief,
yet complete within itself, and that it be an original selection, not
a dramatization of some classic. For a similar reason no story of
American Indian life was put into the collection, though this
exclusion does not mean the omission of a type of literature. A large
number of Indian stories, both of Indian folklore and myth, and of
adventures with Indians, were carefully read; but not one of them, in
the editor's opinion, came up to the standard of a masterpiece and
was, at the same time, brief enough to be practicable for this book.
Some undoubted masterpieces from literatures lying outside the
recognized circle of the American child's "culture"--such, for
example, as the Japanese folk stories--also have been omitted. Other
splendid specimens of juvenile literature, as stories from Kipling's
_Jungle Books_ and essays from Burroughs, have been omitted
because of copyright restrictions.
No one realizes more clearly than does the editor of this collection
that no single book can include all the material that a class
studying children's literature should have before it. There are
dozens of children's books, for example, that a class should know or
know about. An appendix has therefore been placed at the end of this
collection, which lists the reading indispensable to a student of
children's literature. These books should be in the school library,
easily accessible to the students, and they should be considered as
an integral part of the body of children's literature.
As a compendium of good literature for children it is hoped that this
book may interest parents and teachers, quite independently of the
fact that it was prepared for classes of young men and women studying
children's literature, and that it may be put into the hands of
children.
There remains but the pleasant duty of acknowledging the advice and
encouragement received from many persons interested in this subject.
To the publishing houses who have granted permission to use
copyrighted material and to the Librarian of Congress thanks are due
for courtesies extended. To Mr. David Dale Johnson of West Virginia
University for collating; to Mr. Hunter Whiting for a great deal of
copying and collating; and especially to Professor Franklin T. Baker
of Teachers College, Columbia University, Professor James F. Hosic of
the Chicago Normal College, and Mr. John Cotton Dana of the Newark,
New Jersey, Free Public Library, for advice and criticism on the
manuscript,--to all of these the editor hereby expresses his
gratitude.
W. B.
FAIRMONT, WEST VIRGINIA
CONTENTS
BOOK ONE--POETRY
NURSERY JINGLES
CHARACTER SKETCHES
Little Miss Muffet
Diddle, diddle, dumpling
Let's go to bed
Jack Sprat
There was a little girl
SCENES AND INCIDENTS
Jack and Jill
Hickory, dickory, dock
There was an old woman
Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater
Little Jack Horner
TALES
Old Mother Hubbard
Little Bo-peep
The Babes in the Woods
NONSENSE AND HUMOROUS RHYMES
Old Dan Tucker
Old Man John
We're all in the dumps
I had a little horse
SATIRES AND TAUNTS
Georgy-porgy
April fool
Johnny's mad
Cry, baby, cry
Tell-tale-tit
TONGUE TWISTERS
Peter Piper
Swan swam over the sea
COUNTING-OUT JINGLES
Ickity, pickity
One-ery, two-ery
Inty, minty
Intery, mintery
GESTURE AND ACTION SONGS
Trit-trot
Hippity-hop
This little mouse
Here we go up, up, up
RIDDLES
A Cherry
A Fodder Field, a Hog, and a Dog
Hens
A Churn
An Egg
A Star
CATCHES
There, was a man who had no eyes
I am a gold lock
As I was going to St. Ives
CHARMS AND SUPERSTITIONS
Star of light
Marble, marble, roll away
Honest and true
Come, butter, come
Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John
Mole on the neck
WEATHER WISDOM
Rain before seven
Evening red
When the fog goes up the hill
When the bees all homeward fly
AIDS TO MEMORY
One, two, three, four
Naught, one
In fourteen hundred and ninety-two
Thirty days hath September
PROVERBS
Birds of a feather
He that would thrive
Little strokes
See a pin and pick it up
For every evil under the sun
PEDDLER'S CRIES
Pease porridge hot
Hot-cross buns
SOME CHILDREN'S POETS
WILLIAM BLAKE
Piping down the valleys wild
The Lamb
Laughing Song
CHRISTINA ROSSETTI
The Wind
The City Mouse and the Garden Mouse
Lullaby
A Flint
The Sisters
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
The Wind
Windy Nights
The Whole Duty of Children
My Bed Is a Boat
The Land of Counterpane
The Land of Storybooks
LUCY LARCOM
If I Were a Sunbeam
The Rivulet
The Brown Thrush
ANN AND JANE TAYLOR
Meddlesome Matty
The Violet
The Star
The Way to be Happy
ISAAC WATTS
Against Idleness and Mischief
A Morning Song
A Cradle Hymn
LEWIS CARROLL
Jabberwocky
You Are Old, Father William
The Walrus and the Carpenter
EDWARD LEAR
There was an Old Man of the West
There was an Old Man with a beard
There was an Old Person of Dean
There was a Young Lady whose chin
There is a Young Lady whose nose
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat
The Jumblies
BALLADS
POPULAR
Bonny Barbara Allan
Sir Patrick Spence
Robin Hood and Allin a Dale
Kinmont Willie
MODERN
The Wreck of the Hesperus, _Longfellow_
La Belle Dame sans Merci, _Keats_
Lord Ullin's Daughter, _Campbell_
Young Lochinvar, _Scott_
How They Brought the Good News, _Browning_
The Revenge, _Tennyson_
LYRICS
OUR COUNTRY
America, _Smith_
My Native Land, _Scott_
Columbus, _Miller_
Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers, _Hemans_
Concord Hymn, _Emerson_
Old Ironsides, _Holmes_
O Captain! My Captain!, _Whitman_
LOVE LYRICS
To Lucasta, _Lovelace_
She Walks in Beauty, _Byron_
A Red, Red Rose, _Burns_
POEMS OF NATURE
The Greenwood Tree, _Shakespeare_
A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea, _Cunningham_
I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud, _Wordsworth_
The Rhodora, _Emerson_
To the Fringed Genlian, _Bryant_
The Eagle, _Tennyson_
On the Grasshopper and Cricket, _Keats_
LESSONS FROM NATURE
To a Waterfowl, _Bryant_
The Chambered Nautilus, _Holmes_
The Bugle Song, _Tennyson_
SONGS OF LIFE
The Noble Nature, _Jonson_
The Character of a Happy Life, _Wotton_
Say Not the Struggle Nought Availeth, _Clough_
For A' That and A' That, _Burns_
Invictus, _Henley_
Opportunity, _Sill_
A Psalm of Life, _Longfellow_
BOOK TWO
PROSE
STORIES
FABLES
The Dog and the Shadow, _Æsop_
The Fox and the Grapes, _Æsop_
The Hare and the Tortoise, _Æsop_
The Shepherd's Boy, _Æsop_
The Husbandman and the Stork, _Æsop_
The Wind and the Sun, _Æsop_
The Tortoise and the Geese, _Bidpai_
The Partridge and the Crow, _Bidpai_
The Fox and the Grapes, _La Fontaine_
The Wolf and the Stork, _La Fontaine_
FAIRY STORIES AND NURSERY TALES
TRADITIONAL
THE ACCUMULATIVE TALE
The Old Woman and Her Pig, _Jacobs_
THE ANIMAL STORY
The Three Little Pigs, _Jacobs_
THE NOODLE STORY
Hans in Luck, _Grimm_
THE HUMBLE HERO STORY
The Valiant Little Tailor, _Grimm_
Cinderella, _Perrault_
Whittington and His Cat, _Old Chapbook_
THE SYMBOLISTIC STORY
The Ugly Duckling, _Andersen_
The Flax, _Andersen_
THE STORY OF HORROR
Blue Beard, _Perrault_
THE GIANT STORY
Jack and the Beanstalk, _Jacobs_
MISCELLANEOUS STORIES
The Elves, _Grimm_
Te Frog-Prince, _Grimm_
The Quern at the Bottom of the Sea, _Asbjørnsen_
THE NEGRO FOLK TALE
Brother Rabbit and Brother Bull-Frog, _Harris_
MODERN
Brownie and the Cook, _Craik_
The King of the Golden River, _Ruskin_
THE ORIENTAL WONDER STORY
The Story of Aladdin, Arabian Nights
MYTHS AND LEGENDS
CLASSIC
The Gorgon's Head, _Hawthorne_
Theseus, _Kingsley_
GERMANIC
Thor Goes a-Fishing, _Mabie_
Baldur, _Keary-Morss_
THE HERO STORY
Sir William Wallace, _Scott_
THE REPRODUCTION
The Tempest, _Shakespeare-Lamb_
DIDACTIC STORIES
The Purple Jar, _Edgeworth_
Difference and Agreement, _Aiken and Barbauld_
Eyes and No Eyes, _Aiken and Barbauld_
ANIMAL SKETCHES AND STORIES
Rab and His Friends, _Brown_
The Busy Blue Jay, _Miller_
A Cry in the Night, _Long_
SELECTIONS FROM THE BIBLE
The Story of Joseph
The Story of Samson
David's Psalms: First, Nineteenth, Twenty-third
Christ's Sermon on the Mount
Paul's Discourse on Charity
OTHER PROSE FORMS
LETTERS
Lewis Carroll to Miss Standen
Thomas Hood to Miss Elliot
Charles Dickens to Master Hughes
ESSAYS
Traits of Indian Character, _Irving_
Of Studies, _Bacon_
The American Boy, _Roosevelt_
ORATIONS
Give Me Liberty or Give Me Death, _Henry_
Supposed Speech of John Adams, _Webster_
Gettysburg Address, _Lincoln_
APPENDIX
NOTES
INDEX TO AUTHORS, TITLES, AND THE FIRST LINES OF POEMS
TYPES OF CHILDREN'S LITERATURE
NURSERY JINGLES
Little Miss Muffet
Sat on a tuffet,
Eating of curds and whey;
Along came a spider
And sat down beside her,
Which frightened Miss Muffet away.
* * * * *
Diddle, diddle, dumpling, my son John
Went to bed with his stockings on;
One shoe off, the other shoe on,
Diddle, diddle, dumpling, my son John.
* * * * *
"Let's go to bed,"
Says Sleepy-head;
"Let's stay awhile," says Slow;
"Put on the pot,"
Says Greedy-sot,
"We'll sup before we go."
* * * * *
Jack Sprat could eat no fat,
His wife could eat no lean:
And so betwixt them both, you see,
They licked the platter clean.
* * * * *
There was a little girl,
And she had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead;
When she was good,
She was very, very good;
But when she was bad--she was horrid.
[Footnote: Attributed to Longfellow.]
* * * * *
Jack and Jill went up the hill
To fetch a pail of water;
Jack fell down and broke his crown,
And Jill came tumbling after.
* * * * *
Hickory, dickory, dock,
The mouse ran up the clock.
The clock struck one,
And down he run,
Hickory, dickory, dock
* * * * *
There was an old woman who lived in a shoe;
She had so many children she didn't know what to do.
She gave them some broth without any bread,
And whipped them all soundly and put them to bed.
* * * * *
Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater,
Had a wife and couldn't keep her.
He put her in a pumpkin shell,
And there he kept her very well.
* * * * *
Little Jack Horner
Sat in a corner,
Eating a Christmas pie:
He put in his thumb
And pulled out a plum
And said, "What a good boy am I!"
* * * * *
Old Mother Hubbard
Went to the cupboard
To get her poor dog a bone;
But when she got there,
The cupboard was bare,
And so the poor dog had none.
She went to the baker's
To buy him some bread;
And when she came back,
The poor dog was dead.
She went to the joiner's
To buy him a coffin;
And when she came back,
The doggy was laughin'.
She went to the butcher's
To buy him some tripe;
And when she came back,
He was smoking his pipe.
She went to the hatter's
To buy him a hat;
And when she came back,
He was feeding the cat.
She went to the barber's
To buy him a wig;
And when she came back,
He was dancing a jig.
She went to the tailor's
To buy him a coat;
And when she came back,
He was riding a goat.
She went to the cobbler's
To buy him some shoes;
And when she came back,
He was reading the news.
* * * * *
Little Bo-peep
She lost her sheep,
And couldn't tell where to find them.
"Let them alone
And they'll come home,
Wagging their tails behind them."
Little Bo-peep
Fell fast asleep
And dreamt she heard them bleating,
But when she awoke,
She found it a joke,
For still they all were fleeting.
Then up she took
Her little crook,
Determined for to find them.
She found them indeed,
But it made her heart bleed,--
For they'd left their tails behind them.
* * * * *
My dear, do you know
A long time ago
Two poor little children,
Whose names I don't know,
Were taken away on a bright summer day
And left in the woods, as I've heard people say.
And when it was night,
How sad was their plight!
The sun it went down
And the stars hid their light.
They sobbed and they sighed and sadly they cried,
Till the poor little things at last lay down and died.
And when they were dead,
The robins so red
Brought beech and oak leaves
And over them spread.
And all the day long, the branches among,
They sang to them softly, and this was their song:
"Poor babes in the woods, poor babes in the woods,
Oh, who will come find the poor babes in the woods?"
* * * * *
Old Dan Tucker was a fine old man;
He washed his face in a frying pan,
He combed his hair with a wagon wheel,
And died with the toothache in his heel.
* * * * *
Old Man John sitting down by the spring;
He's a Jew, he's a ring,
He's a many pretty thing.
He's a hammer with nine nails,
He's a cat with nine tails.
Whip jack, spur Tom,
Blow the bellows for Old Man John.
* * * * *
We're all in the dumps,
For diamonds are trumps;
The kittens are gone to St. Paul's;
The babies are bit,
The moon's in a fit,
And the houses are built without walls.
* * * * *
I had a little horse, his name was Dapple Gray;
His legs were made of cornstalks, his body made of hay.
I saddled him and bridled him and rode him off to town;
Up came a puff of wind, and blew him up and down.
The saddle flew off, and I let go,--
Now didn't my horse make a pretty little show?
* * * * *
Georgy-porgy, pudding and pie,
Kissed the girls and made them cry.
When the boys came out to play,
Georgy-porgy ran away.
* * * * *
April fool, go to school,
Sit on a two-legged stool.
Too wise you are, too wise you be;
You are not too wise for me.
* * * * *
Johnny's mad, and I am glad,
And I know what will please him:
A bottle of wine to make him shine,
And Mary Jones to squeeze him.
* * * * *
Cry, baby, cry,
Stick your finger in your eye
And tell your mother 'twasn't I.
* * * * *
Tell-tale-tit,
Your tongue shall be slit,
And all the dogs about the town
Shall have a little bit.
Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,
A peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked.
If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,
Where is the peck of peppers Peter Piper picked?
* * * * *
Swan swam over the sea,
Swim, swan, swim;
Swan swam back again,
Well swum, swan.
* * * * *
Ickity, pickity, ally gadaw,
Dicks, do, ally gamaw,
Okus, pokus, pelly gaw,
Franz.
* * * * *
One-ery, two-ery, three-ery, thum,
Backsley, Billy, Nicholas, Bum,
One-a-tirry, Dick and Sirry,
Pot ban, riddle man,
Link, Pink, Sink.
* * * * *
Inly, minly, dibbity fig,
Delia, Dolia, dominig,
Otcha, potcha, dominotcha,
Ella Bella boo,
Out goes you.
* * * * *
Intery, mintery, cutery corn,
Apple seed and apple thorn,
Wire, brier, limber lock,
Three geese in a flock;
Along came Tod,
With his long rod,
And scared them all to Migly-wod.
One flew east, one flew west,
One flew over the cuckoo's nest.--
Make your way home, Jack.
* * * * *
Trit-trot, trit-trot,
To buy a penny cake;
Home again, home again,
I met a black-snake.
Pick up a stone
And breaky backy-bone
Trit-trot, trit-trot
All the way home.
* * * * *
Hippity--hop to the barber shop,
To buy a stick of candy;
One for you, and one for me,
And one for Brother Andy.
* * * * *
This little mouse got caught in a trap,
And this little mouse she heard it snap,
This little mouse did loudly squeak out,
And this little mouse did run all about,
This little mouse said, "Do not bewail
And let us take hold and pull him out by the tail."
[Footnote: Recited on the baby's fingers or toes.]
* * * * *
Here we go up, up, up,
Here we go down, down, down-y;
Here we go up, and here we go down,
And here we go round, round, round-y.
* * * * *
As I went through the garden gap,
Whom should I meet but Dick Red-cap,--
A stick in his hand,
A stone in his throat,--
If you'll tell me this riddle,
I'll give you a gold fiddle.
(A cherry)
* * * * *
One day I went to my whirly-whicker-whacker, (Fodder field)
I met bow-backer, (A hog)
I called Tom-tacker (A dog)
To drive bow-backer
Out of my whirly-whicker-whacker.
* * * * *
One day I went to Body-tot,
I met three ladies in a trot,
With green heads and yellow toes,--
If you don't tell me this riddle I'll burn your nose.
(Hens)
* * * * *
Big at the bottom and little at the top,
A thing in the middle goes flippety-flop.
(A churn)
* * * * *
Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall;
All the king's horses and all the king's men
Couldn't put Humpty Dumpty together again.
(An egg)
* * * * *
I have a little sister, she's called Peep-peep;
She wades the waters deep, deep, deep;
She climbs the mountains high, high, high,--
Poor little thing, she has but one eye.
(A star)
* * * * *
There was a man who had no eyes,
He went abroad to view the skies;
He saw a tree with apples on it,
He took no apples off, yet left no apples on it.
(The man had _one_ eye, and the tree had _two_ apples on it.)
* * * * *
(The following catch depends upon the second child repeating the exact
words of the first, except that he changes "lock" to "key.")
1. I am a gold lock.
2. I am a gold key.
1. I am a silver lock,
2. I am a silver key.
1. I am a brass lock,
2. I am a brass key.
1. I am a monk lock.
2. I am a monk-key.
* * * * *
As I was _going_ to St. Ives,
I _met_ a man with seven wives;
Each wife had seven sacks,
Each sack had seven cats,
Each sack had seven kits,--
Kits, cats, sacks, and wives,
How many were _going_ to St. Ives?
* * * * *
Star of light, so bright, so bright,
'Tis the first star I've seen tonight;
I wish I may, I wish I might
Have the wish I wish tonight.
* * * * *
Marble, marble, roll away,
Go find your brother;
Marble, marble, come back home,
Bring me another.
[Footnote: If you have lost a marble, take another marble and roll it
toward the place you lost the first one, repeating this charm. You
will find the lost one near the second marble.]
* * * * *
Honest and true, black and blue,
You may take your knife and cut me in two.
(An oath)
* * * * *
Come, butter, come,
Come, butter, come;
Johnny stands at the gate,
Waiting for a butter cake,--
Come, butter, come.
* * * * *
Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John
Guard the bed that I lie on;
One to watch and one to pray,
And two to bear my soul away.
* * * * *
Mole on the neck,
Money by the peck.
* * * * *
Rain before seven,
Quit before eleven.
* * * * *
Evening red and morning gray
Sets the traveler on his way;
Evening gray and morning red,
Brings down rain upon his head.
* * * * *
When the fog goes up the hill,
Then the rain comes down by the mill.
* * * * *
When the bees all homeward fly,
Flowers will not long be dry.
* * * * *
1, 2, 3, 4,
Mary at the cottage door;
5, 6, 7, 8,
Eating cherries off a plate.
* * * * *
Naught, one,
Work is done;
Two, three,
Jubilee;
Four, five,
Ducks are alive;
Six, seven,
Stars shine up in heaven;
Eight, nine,
Queen, Queen Caroline,
Wash your face in turpentine,
Monkey-shine, monkey-shine,
Queen, Queen Caroline.
* * * * *
In fourteen hundred and ninety-two
Columbus sailed the ocean blue.
* * * * *
Thirty days hath September,
April, June, and November;
All the rest have thirty-one,
Excepting February alone,
Which has twenty-eight in line,
Till leap-year gives it twenty-nine.
* * * * *
Birds of a feather
Flock together.
* * * * *
He that would thrive
Must rise at five;
He that has thriven
May rise at seven.
* * * * *
Little strokes
Fell great oaks.
* * * * *
See a pin and pick it up,
All the day you'll have good luck.
See a pin and let it lay,
You'll have bad luck all the day.
* * * * *
For every evil under the sun,
There is a remedy, or there is none;
If there be one, try and find it,
If there be none, never mind it.
* * * * *
Pease porridge hot,
Pease porridge cold,
Pease porridge in the pot,
Nine days old.
Some like it hot,
Some like it cold,
Some like it in the pot,
Nine days old.
* * * * *
Hot-cross buns,
Hot-cross buns,
One a penny, two a penny,
Hot-cross buns.
Hot-cross buns,
Hot-cross buns,
If you have no daughters,
Give them to your sons.
SOME CHILDREN'S POETS
William Blake
PIPING DOWN THE VALLEYS WILD
Piping down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he laughing said to me:--
"Pipe a song about a lamb:"
So I piped with merry cheer.
"Piper, pipe that song again:"
So I piped: he wept to hear.
"Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe,
Sing thy songs of happy cheer!"
So I sang the same again,
While he wept with joy to hear.
"Piper, sit thee down and write
In a book, that all may read--"
So he vanished from my sight;
And I plucked a hollow reed,
And I made a rural pen,
And I stained the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.
THE LAMB
Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee,
Gave thee life and bade thee feed
By the stream and o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright,
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice?
Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Little lamb, I'll tell thee;
Little lamb, I'll tell thee.
He is called by thy name,
For He calls himself a Lamb.
He is meek, and He is mild;
He became a little child.
I a child, and thou a lamb,
We are called by His name.
Little lamb, God bless thee!
Little lamb, God bless thee!
LAUGHING SONG
When the green wood laughs with the voice of joy,
And the dimpling stream runs laughing by;
When the air does laugh with our merry wit,
And the green hill laughs with the noise of it;
When the meadows laugh with lively green,
And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene;
When Mary, and Susan, and Emily
With their sweet round mouths sing, "Ha ha he!"
When the painted birds laugh in the shade,
When our table with cherries and nuts is spread;
Come live, and be merry, and join with me,
To sing the sweet chorus of "Ha ha he!"
CHRISTINA ROSSETTI
THE WIND
Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I
But when the leaves hang trembling
The wind is passing by.
Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I
But when the trees bow down their heads
The wind is passing by.
THE CITY MOUSE AND THE GARDEN MOUSE
The city mouse lives in a house;--
The garden mouse lives in a bower,
He's friendly with the frogs and toads,
And sees the pretty plants in flower.
The city mouse eats bread and cheese;--
The garden mouse eats what he can;
We will not grudge him seeds and stalks,
Poor little timid furry man.
LULLABY
Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Flowers are closed and lambs are sleeping;
Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Stars are up, the moon is peeping;
Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
While the birds are silence keeping,
Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Sleep, my baby, fall a-sleeping,
Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
THE SISTERS
Sing me a song--
What shall I sing?--
Three merry sisters
Dancing in a ring,
Light and fleet upon their feet
As birds upon the wing.
Tell me a tale--
What shall I tell?--
Two mournful sisters,
And a tolling knell,
Tolling ding and tolling dong,
Ding dong bell.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
THE WIND
I saw you toss the kites on high
And blow the birds about the sky;
And all around I heard you pass,
Like ladies' skirts across the grass--
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!
I saw the different things you did,
But always you yourself you hid.
I felt you push, I heard you call,
I could not see yourself at all--
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!
O you that are so strong and cold!
O blower, are you young or old?
Are you a beast of field and tree,
Or just a stronger child than me?
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!
WINDY NIGHTS
Whenever the moon and stars are set,
Whenever the wind is high,
All night long in the dark and wet,
A man goes riding by.
Late in the night when the fires are out,
Why does he gallop and gallop about?
Whenever the trees are crying aloud,
And ships are tossed at sea,
By, on the highway, low and loud,
By at the gallop goes he;
By at the gallop he goes, and then
By he comes back at the gallop again.
THE WHOLE DUTY OF CHILDREN
A child should always say what's true
And speak when he is spoken to,
And behave mannerly at table;
At least as far as he is able.
MY BED IS A BOAT
My bed is like a little boat;
Nurse helps me in when I embark;
She girds me in my sailor's coat
And starts me in the dark.
At night, I go on board and say
Good night to all my friends on shore;
I shut my eyes and sail away,
And see and hear no more.
And sometimes things to bed I take,
As prudent sailors have to do;
Perhaps a slice of wedding cake,
Perhaps a toy or two.
All night across the dark we steer;
But when the day returns at last,
Safe in my room, beside the pier,
I find my vessel fast.
THE LAND OF COUNTERPANE
When I was sick and lay abed,
I had two pillows at my head,
And all my toys beside me lay
To keep me happy all the day.
And sometimes for an hour or so
I watched my leaden soldiers go,
With different uniforms and drills,
Among the bedclothes, through the hills;
And sometimes sent my ships in fleets
All up and down among the sheets;
Or brought my trees and houses out,
And planted cities all about.
I was the giant great and still
That sits upon the pillow hill,
And sees before him, dale and plain,
The pleasant land of counterpane.
THE LAND OF STORYBOOKS
At evening when the lamp is lit,
Around the fire my parents sit;
They sit at home and talk and sing,
And do not play at anything.
Now, with my little gun, I crawl
All in the dark along the wall,
And follow round the forest track
Away behind the sofa back.
There, in the night, where none can spy,
All in my hunter's camp I lie,
And play at books that I have read
Till it is time to go to bed.
These are the hills, these are the woods,
These are my starry solitudes;
And there the river by whose brink
The roaring lions come to drink.
I see the others far away
As if in firelit camp they lay,
And I, like to an Indian scout,
Around their party prowled about.
So, when my nurse comes in for me,
Home I return across the sea,
And go to bed with backward looks
At my dear Land of Storybooks.
LUCY LARCOM
IF I WERE A SUNBEAM
"If I were a sunbeam,
I know what I'd do;
I would seek white lilies,
Rainy woodlands through.
I would steal among them,
Softest light I'd shed,
Until every lily
Raised its drooping head.
"If I were a sunbeam,
I know where I'd go;
Into lowliest hovels,
Dark with want and woe:
Till sad hearts looked upward,
I would shine and shine;
Then they'd think of heaven,
Their sweet home and mine."
Art thou not a sunbeam,
Child, whose life is glad
With an inner radiance
Sunshine never had?
O, as God hath blessed thee,
Scatter rays divine!
For there is no sunbeam
But must die or shine.
THE RIVULET
Run, little rivulet, run!
Summer is fairly begun.
Bear to the meadow the hymn of the pines,
And the echo that rings where the waterfall shines;
Run, little rivulet, run!
Run, little rivulet, run!
Sing to the fields of the sun
That wavers in emerald, shimmers in gold,
Where you glide from your rocky ravine, crystal cold;
Run, little rivulet, run!
Run, little rivulet, run!
Sing of the flowers, every one,--
Of the delicate harebell and violet blue;
Of the red mountain rosebud, all dripping with dew;
Run, little rivulet, run!
Run, little rivulet, run!
Carry the perfume you won
From the lily, that woke when the morning was gray,
To the white waiting moonbeam adrift on the bay;
Run, little rivulet, run!
Run, little rivulet, run!
Stay not till summer is done!
Carry the city the mountain birds' glee;
Carry the joy of the hills to the sea;
Run, little rivulet, run!
THE BROWN THRUSH
There's a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree.
He's singing to me! He's singing to me!
And what does he say, little girl, little boy?
"Oh, the world's running over with joy!
Don't you hear? Don't you see?
Hush! Look! In my tree
I'm as happy as happy can be!"
And the brown thrush keeps singing, "A nest do you see,
And five eggs, hid by me in the juniper tree?
Don't meddle! Don't touch! little girl, little boy,
Or the world will lose some of its joy!
Now I'm glad! now I'm free!
And I always shall be,
If you never bring sorrow to me."
So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree,
To you and to me, to you and to me;
And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy,
"Oh, the world's running over with joy!
But long it won't be,
Don't you know? don't you see?
Unless we are as good as can be!"
ANN AND JANE TAYLOR
MEDDLESOME MATTY
One ugly trick has often spoiled
The sweetest and the best:
Matilda, though a pleasant child,
One grievous fault possessed,
Which, like a cloud before the skies,
Hid all her better qualities.
Sometimes she'd lift the teapot lid
To peep at what was in it;
Or tilt the kettle, if you did
But turn your back a minute.
In vain you told her not to touch,
Her trick of meddling grew so much.
Her grandmamma went out one day
And by mistake she laid
Her spectacles and snuffbox gay
Too near the little maid.
"Ah! well," thought she, "I'll try them on
As soon as grandmamma is gone."
Forthwith she placed upon her nose
The glasses large and wide;
And looking round, as I suppose,
The snuffbox too she spied:
"Oh! what a pretty box is that;
I'll open it," said little Matt.
"I know that grandmamma would say,
'Don't meddle with it, dear';
But then, she's far enough away,
And no one else is near.
Besides, what can there be amiss
In opening such a box as this?"
So thumb and finger went to work
To move the stubborn lid,
And presently a mighty jerk
The mighty mischief did;
For all at once, ah! woeful case.
The snuff came puffing in her face.
Poor eyes and nose and mouth, beside,
A dismal sight presented;
In vain, as bitterly she cried,
Her folly she repented;
In vain she ran about for ease,
She could do nothing now but sneeze.
She dashed the spectacles away
To wipe her tingling eyes,
And as in twenty bits they lay,
Her grandmamma she spies.
"Heyday! and what's the matter now?"
Says grandmamma with lifted brow.
Matilda, smarting with the pain,
And tingling still, and sore,
Made many a promise to refrain
From meddling evermore.
And 'tis a fact, as I have heard,
She ever since has kept her word.
THE VIOLET
Down in a green and shady bed
A modest violet grew,
Its stalk was bent, it hung its head,
As if to hide from view.
And yet it was a lovely flower,
Its color bright and fair;
It might have graced a rosy bower
Instead of hiding there.
Yet there it was content to bloom,
In modest tints arrayed;
And there diffused a sweet perfume
Within the silent shade.--
Then let me to the valley go
This pretty flower to see,
That I may also learn to grow
In sweet humility.
THE STAR
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are!
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.
When the blazing sun is gone,
When he nothing shines upon,
Then you show your little light,
Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.
Then the traveler in the dark,
Thanks you for your tiny spark!
He could not see which way to go,
If you did not twinkle so.
In the dark blue sky you keep,
And often through my curtains peep,
For you never shut your eye
Till the sun is in the sky.
As your bright and tiny spark
Lights the traveler in the dark,
Though I know not what you are,
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
THE WAY TO BE HAPPY
How pleasant it is at the end of the day,
No follies to have to repent,
But reflect on the past and be able to say,
My time has been properly spent!
When I've done all my business with patience and care,
And been good, and obliging, and kind,
I lie on my pillow and sleep away there,
With a happy and peaceable mind.
Instead of all this, if it must be confest,
That I careless and idle have been,
I lie down as usual, and go to my rest,
But feel discontented within.
Then as I dislike all the trouble I've had,
In future I'll try to prevent it,
For I never am naughty without being sad,
Or good--without being contented.
ISAAC WATTS
AGAINST IDLENESS AND MISCHIEF
How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
From every opening flower!
How skillfully she builds her cell!
How neat she spreads her wax!
And labors hard to store it well
With the sweet food she makes.
In works of labor or of skill,
I would be busy too;
For Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.
In books, or work, or healthful play,
Let my first years be past,
That I may give for every day
Some good account at last.
A MORNING SONG
My God, who makes the sun to know
His proper hour to rise,
And to give light to all below,
Doth send him round the skies.
When from the chambers of the east
His morning race begins,
He never tires, nor stops to rest,
But round the world he shines.
So, like the sun, would I fulfill
The business of the day:
Begin my work betimes, and still
March on my heavenly way.
Give me, O Lord, thy early grace,
Nor let my soul complain
That the young morning of my days
Has all been spent in vain.
A CRADLE HYMN
Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber!
Holy angels guard thybed!
Heavenly blessings without number
Gently falling on thy head.
Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment,
House and home, thy friends provide;
All without thy care or payment,
All thy wants are well supplied.
How much better thou'rt attended
Than the Son of God could be,
When from heaven He descended,
And became a child like thee!
Soft and easy is thy cradle;
Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay,
When His birthplace was a stable,
And His softest bed was hay.
Lo, He slumbers in His manger,
Where the horned oxen fed;
Peace, my darling, here's no danger,
Here's no ox a-near thy bed.
Mayst thou live to know and fear Him,
Trust and love Him all thy days;
Then go dwell forever near Him,
See His face, and sing His praise!
LEWIS CARROLL
JABBERWOCKY
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimbel in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought--
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O Frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimbel in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
YOU ARE OLD, FATHER WILLIAM
"You are old, father William," the young man said
"And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head--
Do you think, at your age, it is right?"
"In my youth," father William replied to his son,
"I feared it might injure the brain;
But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again."
"You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before,
And have grown most uncommonly fat;
Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door--
Pray, what is the reason of that?"
"In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his gray locks,
"I kept all my limbs very supple
By the use of this ointment--one shilling the box--
Allow me to sell you a couple?"
"You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak
For anything tougher than suet;
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak--
Pray, how did you manage to do it?"
"In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife;
And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw
Has lasted the rest of my life."
"You are old," said the youth; "one would hardly suppose
That your eye was as steady as ever;
Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose--
What made you so awfully clever?"
"I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"
Said his father; "don't give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I'll kick you downstairs!"
THE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER
The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might;
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.
The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"
The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky;
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand--
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"
"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year,
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.
"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach;
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."
The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said;
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head--
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the Oyster bed.
But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat;
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.
Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low--
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.
"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."
"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.
"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need;
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."
"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine!" the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?
"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but,
"Cut us another slice.
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"
"It seems a shame," the Walrus said.
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but,
"The butter's spread too thick!"
"I weep for you," the Walrus said;
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.
"O Oysters", said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?"
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.
EDWARD LEAR
There was an Old Man of the West,
Who never could get any rest;
So they set him to spin on his nose and his chin.
Which cured that Old Man of the West.
* * * * *
There was an Old Man with a beard,
Who said, "It is just as I feared!--
Two Owls and a Hen, four Larks and a Wren,
Have all built their nests in my beard!"
* * * * *
There was an Old Person of Dean,
Who dined on one pea and one bean;
For he said, "More than that would make me too fat,"
That cautious Old Person of Dean.
* * * * *
There was a Young Lady whose chin
Resembled the point of a pin;
So she had it made sharp, and purchased a harp,
And played several tunes with her chin.
* * * * *
There is a Young Lady whose nose
Continually prospers and grows;
When it grew out of sight, she exclaimed in a fright,
"Oh! Farewell to the end of my nose!"
THE OWL AND THE PUSSY-CAT
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat:
They took some honey, and plenty of money
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
"O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!"
Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl,
How charmingly sweet you sing!
Oh! let us be married; too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?"
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the bong-tree grows;
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood,
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.
"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.
THE JUMBLIES
They went to sea in a sieve, they did;
In a sieve they went to sea:
In spite of all their friends could say,
On a winter's morn, on a stormy day,
In a sieve they went to sea.
And when the sieve turned round and round,
And every one cried, "You'll all be drowned!"
They called aloud, "Our sieve ain't big;
But we don't care a button, we don't care a fig:
In a sieve we'll go to sea!"
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live:
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue;
And they went to sea in a sieve.
They sailed away in a sieve, they did,
In a sieve they sailed so fast,
With only a beautiful pea-green veil
Tied with a ribbon, by way of a sail,
To a small tobacco-pipe mast.
And every one said who saw them go,
"Oh! won't they be soon upset, you know?
For the sky is dark, and the voyage is long;
And happen what may, it's extremely wrong
In a sieve to sail so fast."
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live:
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue;
And they went to sea in a sieve.
The water it soon came in, it did;
The water it soon came in:
So, to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet
In a pinky paper all folded neat;
And they fastened it down with a pin.
And they passed the night in a crockery-jar;
And each of them said, "How wise we are!
Though the night be dark, and the voyage be long,
Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong,
While round in our sieve we spin."
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live:
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue;
And they went to sea in a sieve.
And all night long they sailed away;
And when the sun went down,
They whistled and warbled a moony song
To the echoing sound of a coppery gong,
In the shade of the mountains brown.
"O Timballo! How happy we are
When we live in a sieve and a crockery jar!
And all night long, in the moonlight pale,
We sail away with a pea-green sail
In the shade of the mountains brown."
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live:
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue;
And they went to sea in a sieve.
They sailed to the Western Sea, they did,--
To a land all covered with trees:
And they bought an owl, and a useful cart,
And a pound of rice, and a cranberry tart,
And a hive of silvery bees;
And they bought a pig, and some green jackdaws,
And a lovely monkey with lollipop paws,
And forty bottles of ring-bo-ree,
And no end of Stilton cheese.
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live:
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue;
And they went to sea in a sieve.
And in twenty years they all came back,--
In twenty years or more;
And every one said, "How tall they've grown!
For they've been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone,
And the hills of the Chankly Bore."
And they drank their health, and gave them a feast
Of dumplings made of beautiful yeast;
And every one said, "If we only live,
We, too, will go to sea in a sieve,
To the hills of the Chankly Bore."
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live:
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue;
And they went to sea in a sieve.
BALLADS
POPULAR
BONNY BARBARA ALLAN
It was in and about the Martinmas time,
When the green leaves were a-falling,
That Sir John Graeme, in the West Country,
Fell in love with Barbara Allan.
He sent his man down through the town,
To the place where she was dwelling:
"O haste and come to my master dear,
Gin ye be Barbara Allan."
O hooly, hooly rose she up,
To the place where he was lying,
And when she drew the curtain by:
"Young man, I think you're dying."
"O it's I'm sick, and very, very sick,
And 'tis a' for Barabara Allan";
"O the better for me ye's never be,
Tho your heart's blood were a-spilling.
"Do you remember the other day,
When we were at the tavern drinking,
You drank a health to the ladies all,
And you slighted Barbara Allan?"
"Yes, I remember the other day,
When we were at the tavern drinking,
I drank a health to the ladies all,
And three to Barbara Allan."
"Do you remember the other night,
When we were at the ballroom dancing,
You gave your hand to the ladies all,
And slighted Barbara Allan?"
"Yes, I remember the other night,
When we were at the ballroom dancing,
I gave my hand to the ladies all,
And my heart to Barbara Allan."
He turned his face unto the wall,
And death was with him dealing:
"Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all.
And be kind to Barbara Allan."
And slowly, slowly raise she up,
And slowly, slowly left him,
And, sighing, said she could not stay,
Since death of life had reft him.
She had not gane a mile but twa,
When she heard the dead-bell ringing,
And every jow that the dead-bell geid,
It cry'd, "Woe to Barbara Allan."
"O mother, mother, make my bed!
O make it saft and narrow!
Since my love died for me today,
I'll die for him tomorrow."
SIR PATRICK SPENCE
The king sits in Dunferling toune,
Drinking the blude-reid wine;
"O whar will I get a guid sailór
To sail this schip of mine?"
Up and spak an eldern knicht,
Sat at the king's richt kne:
"Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailór,
That sails upon the se."
The king has written a braid letter,
And signd it wi' his hand;
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence,
Was walking on the sand.
The first line that Sir Patrick red,
A loud lauch lauchéd he;
The next line that Sir Patrick red.
The teir blinded his ee.
"O wha is this has don this deid,
This ill deid don to me,
To send me out this time o' the yeir,
To sail upon the se!
"Mak haste, mak haste, my mirry men all,
Our guid schip sails the morne."
"O say na sae, my master deir,
For I feir a deadlie storme.
"Late late yestreen I saw the new moone,
Wi' the auld moone in his arme,
And I feir, I feir, my deir mastèr,
That we will com to harme."
O our Scots nobles wer richt laith
To weet their cork-heild schoone;
Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd,
Thair hats they swam aboone.
O lang, lang may their ladies sit,
Wi' thair fans into their hand,
Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spence
Cum sailing to the land.
O lang, lang may the ladies stand,
Wi' thair gold kerns in their hair,
Waiting for thair ain deir lords,
For they'll se thame na mair.
Half owre, half owre to Aberdour,
It's fiftie fadom deip,
And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence,
Wi' the Scots lords at his feit.
ROBIN HOOD AND ALLIN A DALE
Come listen to me, you gallants so free,
All you that loves mirth for to hear,
And I will tell you of a bold outlaw,
That lived in Nottinghamshire.
As Robin Hood in the forest stood,
All under the greenwood tree,
There was he ware of a brave young man,
As fine as fine might be.
The youngster was clothed in scarlet red,
In scarlet fine and gay;
And he did frisk it over the plain,
And chanted a roundelay.
As Robin Hood next morning stood,
Amongst the leaves so gay,
There did he espy the same young man
Come drooping along the way.
The scarlet he wore the day before,
It was clean cast away;
And at every step he fetcht a sigh,
"Alack and a well a day!"
Then stepped forth brave Little John,
And Nick the miller's son,
Which made the young man bend his bow,
When as he see them come.
"Stand off, stand off," the young man said,
"What is your will with me?"
"You must come before our master straight,
Under yon greenwood tree."
And when he came bold Robin before,
Robin askt him courteously,
"O hast thou any money to spare
For my merry men and me?"
"I have no money," the young man said,
"But five shillings and a ring;
And that I have kept this seven long years,
To have it at my wedding.
"Yesterday I should have married a maid,
But she is now from me tane,
And chosen to be an old knight's delight,
Whereby my poor heart is slain."
"What is thy name?" then said Robin Hood,
"Come tell me, without any fail":
"By the faith of my body," then said the young man,
"My name it is Allin a Dale."
"What wilt thou give me," said Robin Hood,
"In ready gold or fee,
To help thee to thy true-love again,
And deliver her unto thee?"
"I have no money," then quoth the young man,
"No ready gold nor fee,
But I will swear upon a book
Thy true servant for to be."
"How many miles is it to thy true-love?
Come tell me without any guile":
"By the faith of my body," then said the young man,
"It is but five little mile."
Then Robin he hasted over the plain,
He did neither stint nor lin,
Until he came unto the church,
Where Allin should keep his wedding.
"What dost thou do here?" the bishop he said,
"I prithee now tell to me":
"I am a bold harper," quoth Robin Hood,
"And the best in the north countrey."
"O welcome, O welcome," the bishop he said,
"That musick best pleaseth me":
"You shall have no musick," quoth Robin Hood,
"Till the bride and the bridegroom I see."
With that came in a wealthy knight,
Which was both grave and old,
And after him a finikin lass
Did shine like glistering gold.
"This is no fit match," quoth bold Robin Hood,
"That you do seem to make here;
For since we are come unto the church,
The bride she shall chuse her own dear."
Then Robin Hood put his horn to his mouth,
And blew blasts two or three;
When four and twenty bowmen bold
Came leaping over the lee.
And when they came into the church-yard,
Marching all on a row,
The first man was Allin a Dale,
To give bold Robin his bow.
"This is thy true-love," Robin he said,
"Young Allin, as I hear say:
And you shall be married at this same time,
Before we depart away."
"That shall not be," the bishop he said,
"For thy word shall not stand;
They shall be three times askt in the church,
As the law is of our land."
Robin Hood pulld off the bishop's coat,
And put it upon Little John;
"By the faith of my body," then Robin said,
"This cloath doth make thee a man."
When Little John went into the quire,
The people began for to laugh;
He askt them seven times in the church,
Lest three times should not be enough.
"Who gives me this maid?" then said Little John;
Quoth Robin, "That do I,
And he that doth take her from Allin a Dale
Full dearly he shall her buy."
And thus having ended this merry wedding,
The bride lookt as fresh as a queen,
And so they returned to the merry greenwood,
Amongst the leaves so green.
KINMONT WILLIE
O! have ye na heard o' the fause Sakelde?
O! have ye na heard o' the keen Lord Scroope?
How they hae taen bauld Kinmont Willie
On Haribee to hang him up?
Had Willie had but twenty men,
But twenty men as stout as he,
Fause Sakelde had never the Kinmont ta'en,
Wi' eight score in his companie.
They band his legs beneath the steed,
They tied his hands behind his back;
They guarded him, fivesome on each side,
And they brought him ower the Liddel-rack.
They led him thro' the Liddel-rack,
And also thro' the Carlisle sands;
They brought him to Carlisle castell,
To be at my Lord Scroope's commands.
"My hands are tied, but my tongue is free,
And whae will dare this deed avow?
Or answer by the border law?
Or answer to the bauld Buccleuch?"
"Now baud thy tongue, thou rank reiver!
There's never a Scot shall set thee free;
Before ye cross my castle yate,
I trow ye shall take farewell o' me."
"Fear na ye that, my lord," quo' Willie;
"By the faith o' my bodie, Lord Scroope," he said,
"I never yet lodged in a hostelrie
But I paid my lawing before I gaed."
Now word is gane to the bauld Keeper,
In Branksome Ha', where that he lay,
That Lord Scroope has ta'en the Kinmont Willie,
Between the hours of night and day.
He has ta'en the table wi' his hand,
He garr'd the red wine spring on hie--
"Now Christ's curse on my head," he said,
"But avenged of Lord Scroope I'll be!
"Oh is my basnet a widow's curch?
Or my lance a wand of the willow-tree?
Or my arm a ladye's lilye hand,
That an English lord should lightly me?
"And have they ta'en him, Kinmont Willie,
Against the truce of the Bordertide?
And forgotten that the bauld Buccleuch
Is keeper here on the Scottish side?
"And have they e'en ta'en him, Kinmont Willie,
Withouten either dread or fear?
And forgotten that the bauld Buccleuch
Can back a steed, or shake a spear?
"O were there war between the lands,
As well I wot that there is none,
I would slight Carlisle castell high,
Tho it were builded of marble stone.
"I would set that castell in a low,
And sloken it with English blood!
There's never a man in Cumberland
Should ken where Carlisle castell stood.
"But since nae war's between the lands,
And there is peace, and peace should be;
I'll neither harm English lad or lass,
And yet the Kinmont freed shall be!"
He has call'd him forty Marchmen bauld.
I trow they were of his ain name,
Except Sir Gilbert Elliot, call'd
The Laird of Stobs, I mean the same.
He has call'd him forty Marchmen bauld,
Were kinsmen to the bauld Buccleuch;
With spur on heel, and splent on spauld;
And gleuves of green, and feathers blue.
There were five and five before them a',
Wi' hunting-horns and bugles bright,
And five and five came wi' Buccleuch
Like warden's men, array'd for fight;
And five and five, like a mason gang,
That carried the ladders lang and hie;
And five and five, like broken men,
And so they reach'd the Woodhouselee.
And as we cross'd the Bateable Land,
When to the English side we held,
The first o' men that we met wi',
Whae sould it be but fause Sakelde?
"Where be ye gaun, ye hunters keen?"
Quo' fause Sakelde; "come tell to me!"--
"We go to hunt an English stag,
Has trespass'd on the Scots countrie."
"Where be ye gaun, ye marshal men?"
Quo' fause Sakelde; "come tell me true!"--
"We go to catch a rank reiver,
Has broken faith wi' the bauld Buccleuch."
"Where are ye gaun, ye mason lads,
Wi' a' your ladders, lang and hie?"--
"We gang to herry a corbie's nest,
That wons not far frae Woodhouselee."--
"Where be ye gaun, ye broken men?"
Quo' fause Sakelde; "come tell to me!"--
Now Dickie of Dryhope led that band,
And the nevir a word of lear had he.
"Why trespass ye on the English side?
Row-footed outlaws, stand!" quo' he;
The nevir a word had Dickie to say,
Sae he thrust the lance through his fause bodie.
Then on we held for Carlisle toun.
And at Staneshaw-bank the Eden we cross'd;
The water was great and meikle of spait,
But the nevir a horse nor man we lost.
And when we reach'd the Staneshaw-bank,
The wind was rising loud and hie;
And there the laird garr'd leave our steeds,
For fear that they should stamp and nie.
And when we left the Staneshaw-bank,
The wind began full loud to blaw,
But 'twas wind and weet, and fire and sleet,
When we came beneath the castel wa'.
We crept on knees, and held our breath,
Till we placed the ladders against the wa';
And sae ready was Buccleuch himsell
To mount the first before us a'.
He has ta'en the watchman by the throat,
He flung him down upon the lead--
"Had there not been peace between our lands,
Upon the other side thou hadst gaed!--
"Now sound out, trumpets!" quo' Buccleuch;
"Let's waken Lord Scroope right merrilie!"
Then loud the warden's trumpet blew--
"_O wha dare meddle wi' me?_"
Then speedilie to wark we gaed,
And raised the slogan ane and a',
And cut a hole through a sheet of lead,
And so we wan to the castle ha'.
They thought King James and a' his men
Had won the house wi' bow and spear;
It was but twenty Scots and ten,
That put a thousand in sic a stear!
Wi' coulters, and wi' forehammers,
We garr'd the bars bang merrilie,
Until we came to the inner prison,
Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie.
And when we cam to the lower prison,
Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie--
"O, sleep ye, wake ye, Kinmont Willie,
Upon the morn that thou's to die?"--
"O, I sleep saft, and I wake aft,'
It's lang since sleeping was fley'd frae me;
Gie my service back to my wife and bairns,
And a' gude fellows that spier for me."--
Then Red Rowan has hente him up,
The starkest man in Teviotdale--
"Abide, abide now, Red Rowan,
Till of my Lord Scroope I take farewell.
"Farewell, farewell, my gude Lord Scroope!
My gude Lord Scroope, farewell!" he cried;
"I'll pay you for my lodging maill
When first we meet on the Border side."
Then shoulder high, with shout and cry,
We bore him down the ladder lang;
At every stride Red Rowan made,
I wot the Kinmont's airns play'd clang.
"O mony a time," quo' Kinmont Willie,
"I have ridden horse baith wild and wood;
"But a rougher beast than Red Rowan
I ween my legs have ne'er bestrode.
"And mony a time," quo' Kinmont Willie,
"I've prick'd a horse out oure the furs;
But since the day I back'd a steed
I never wore sic cumbrous spurs!"--
We scarce had won the Staneshaw-bank,
When a' the Carlisle bells were rung,
And a thousand men, on horse and foot,
Cam wi' the keen Lord Scroope along.
Buccleuch has turn'd to Eden Water,
Even where it flow'd frae bank to brim,
And he has plunged in wi' a' his band,
And safely swam them through the stream.
He turn'd him on the other side,
And at Lord Scroope his glove flung he--
"If ye like na my visit in merry England,
In fair Scotland come visit me!"
All sore astonish'd stood Lord Scroope,
He stood as still as rock of stane;
He scarcely dared to trew his eyes,
When through the water they had gane.
"He is either himsell a devil frae hell,
Or else his mother a witch maun be;
I wadna have ridden that wan water,
For a' the gowd in Christentie."
MODERN
THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
It was the schooner _Hesperus_,
That sailed the wintry sea;
And the skipper had taken his little daughter,
To bear him company.
Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,
Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,
That ope in the month of May.
The skipper he stood beside the helm,
His pipe was in his mouth,
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
The smoke now West, now South.
Then up and spake an old sailor,
Had sailed to the Spanish Main,
"I pray thee, put into yonder port,
For I fear a hurricane.
"Last night the moon had a golden ring,
And tonight no moon we see!"
The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,
And a scornful laugh laughed he.
Colder and louder blew the wind,
A gale from the Northeast,
The snow fell hissing in the brine,
And the billows frothed like yeast.
Down came the storm, and smote amain
The vessel in its strength;
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,
Then leaped her cable's length.
"Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,
And do not tremble so;
For I can weather the roughest gale
That ever wind did blow."
He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
Against the stinging blast;
He cut a rope from a broken spar.
And bound her to the mast.
"O father! I hear the church-bells ring,
O say, what may it be?"
"'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast"--
And he steered for the open sea.
"O father! I hear the sound of guns,
O say, what may it be?"
"Some ship in distress, that cannot live
In such an angry sea!"
"O father! I see a gleaming light,
O say, what may it be?"
But the father answered never a word,
A frozen corpse was he.
Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
With his face turned to the skies,
The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
On his fixed and glassy eyes.
Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed
That saved she might be;
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave
On the Lake of Galilee.
And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
Through the whistling sleet and snow,
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe.
And ever the fitful gusts between
A sound came from the land;
It was the sound of the trampling surf
On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.
The breakers were right beneath her bows,
She drifted a dreary wreck,
And a whooping billow swept the crew
Like icicles from her deck.
She struck where the white and fleecy waves
Looked soft as carded wool.
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
Like the horns of an angry bull.
Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
With the masts went by the board;
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,
"Ho! ho!" the breakers roared!
At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
A fisherman stood aghast,
To see the form of a maiden fair,
Lashed close to a drifting mast.
The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
The salt tears in her eyes;
And he saw her hair, like the brown seaweed,
On the billows fall and rise.
Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
In the midnight and the snow!
Christ save us all from a death like this,
On the reef of Norman's Woe!
LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI
John Keats
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.
I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheek a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in the meads
Full beautiful--a faery's child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing
A faery's song.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look'd at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew;
And sure in language strange she said--
"I love thee true."
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she gazed, and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
So kiss'd to sleep.
And there we slumber'd on the moss,
And there I dream'd--Ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dream'd
On the cold hill side.
I saw pale kings, and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all
They cried--"La Belle Dame sans Merci,
Hath thee in thrall!"
I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke, and found me here
On the cold hill side.
And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.
LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER
Thomas Campbell
A chieftain to the Highlands bound,
Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound
To row us o'er the ferry."--
"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy water?"
"O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,
And this Lord Ullin's daughter.
"And fast before her father's men
Three days we've fled together,
For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.
"His horsemen hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover?"--
Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
"I'll go, my chief--I'm ready:--
It is not for your silver bright;
But for your winsome lady:
"And by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry:
So, though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry."--
By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.
But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armed men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.--
"O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,
"Though tempests round us gather;
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father."--
The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,--
When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o'er her.--
And still they rowed amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,--
His wrath was changed to wailing.--
For sore dismayed, through storm and shade,
His child he did discover:--
One lovely hand she stretched for aid,
And one was round her lover.
"Come back! come back!" he cried, in grief,
"Across this stormy water:
And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
My daughter! oh, my daughter!"--
'Twas vain:--the loud waves lashed the shore.
Return or aid preventing:--
The waters wild went o'er his child,
And he was left lamenting.
YOUNG LOCHINVAR
Sir Walter Scott
Oh young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And save his good broadsword he weapon had none;
He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,
He swam the Esk river where ford there was none;
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.
So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall,
Among brid'smen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all;
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,)
"O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"--
"I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied;--
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide--
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."
The bride kiss'd the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,--
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whispered, "'Twere better by far,
To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near;
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX
16--
Robert Browning
I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;
"Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew;
"Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through;
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest
And into the midnight we galloped abreast.
Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,
Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.
'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;
At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;
At Duffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be;
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,
So Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!"
At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And against him the cattle stood black every one,
To stare through the mist at us galloping past,
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,
With resolute shoulders, each butting away
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray;
And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;
And one eye's black intelligence,--ever that glance
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!
And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.
By Hasselt, Direk groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur!
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her,
We'll remember at Aix"--for one heard the quick wheeze
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.
So, we were left galloping, Joris and I,
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,
'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;
Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,
And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!"
"How they'll greet us!"--and all in a moment his roan
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate.
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.
Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,
Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer;
Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.
And all I remember is--friends flocking round
As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground;
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)
Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.
THE REVENGE
A BALLAD OF THE FLEET
Alfred Tennyson
I
At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay,
And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far away:
"Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!"
Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: "'Fore God I am no coward;
But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear,
And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick.
We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?"
II
Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: "I know you are no coward;
You fly them for a moment to fight with them again.
But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore.
I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard,
To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain."
III
So Lord Howard past away with five ships of war that day,
Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven;
But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land
Very carefully and slow,
Men of Bideford in Devon,
And we laid them on the ballast down below;
For we brought them all aboard,
And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain,
To the thumb-screw and the stake, for the glory of the Lord.
IV
He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight,
And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight,
With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weatherbow.
"Shall we fight or shall we fly?
Good Sir Richard, tell us now,
For to fight is but to die!
There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set."
And Sir Richard said again: "We be all good Englishmen.
Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil,
For I never turn'd my back upon Don or devil yet."
V
Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a hurrah, and so
The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe,
With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below;
For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen,
And the little Revenge ran on thro' the long sea-lane between.
VI
Thousands of their soldiers look'd down from their decks and laugh'd,
Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft
Running on and on, till delay'd
By their mountain-like San Philip that, of fifteen hundred tons,
And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns,
Took the breath from our sails, and we stay'd.
VII
And while now the great San Philip hung above us like a cloud
Whence the thunderbolt will fall
Long and loud,
Four galleons drew away
From the Spanish fleet that day,
And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay,
And the battle-thunder broke from them all.
VIII
But anon the great San Philip, she bethought herself and went,
Having that within her womb that had left her ill content;
And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand to hand.
For a dozen times they came with their pikes and musqueteers,
And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes his ears,
When he leaps from the water to the land.
IX
And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer sea,
But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three.
Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came,
Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and flame;
Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and her shame.
For some were sunk and many were shatter'd, and so could fight us no more--
God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before?
X
For he said, "Fight on! fight on!"
Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck;
And it chanced that, when half of the short summer night was gone,
With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck,
But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead,
And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head,
And he said, "Fight on! fight on!"
XI
And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer sea,
And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring;
But they dared not touch us again, for they fear'd that we still could sting,
So they watch'd what the end would be.
And we had not fought them in vain,
But in perilous plight were we,
Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain,
And half of the rest of us maim'd for life
In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife;
And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold,
And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of it spent;
And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side;
But Sir Richard cried in his English pride:
"We have fought such a fight for a day and a night
As may never be fought again!
We have won great glory, my men!
And a day less or more
At sea or ashore,
We die--does it matter when?
Sink me the ship, Master Gunner--sink her, split her in twain!
Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!"
XII
And the gunner said, "Ay, ay," but the seamen made reply:
"We have children, we have wives,
And the Lord hath spared our lives.
We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go;
We shall live to fight again and to strike another blow."
And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe.
XIII
And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then,
Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last,
And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace;
But he rose upon their decks, and he cried:
"I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and true;
I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do.
With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard Grenville die!"
And he fell upon their decks, and he died.
XIV
And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true,
And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap
That he dared her with one little ship and his English few;
Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew,
But they sank his body with honor down into the deep,
And they mann'd the Revenge with a swarthier alien crew,
And away she sail'd with her loss and long'd for her own;
When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from sleep,
And the water began to heave and the weather to moan,
And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew,
And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew,
Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and their flags,
And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter'd navy of Spain,
And the little Revenge herself went down by the island crags
To be lost evermore in the main.
LYRICS
OUR COUNTRY
AMERICA
Samuel Francis Smith
My country, 'tis of thee,
Sweet land of liberty;
Of thee I sing;
Land where my fathers died,
Land of the pilgrims' pride,--
From every mountain side
Let freedom ring.
My native country, thee,
Land of the noble free,--
Thy name I love;
I love thy rocks and rills,
Thy woods and templed hills;
My heart with rapture thrills
Like that above.
Let music swell the breeze,
And ring from all the trees
Sweet freedom's song;
Let mortal tongues awake,
Let all that breathe partake!
Let rocks their silence break,--
The sound prolong.
Our fathers' God,--to Thee,
Author of liberty,
To Thee we sing;
Long may our land be bright
With freedom's holy light;
Protect us by thy might,
Great God, our King.
MY NATIVE LAND
Sir Walter Scott
Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
"This is my own, my native land!"
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go mark him well;
For him no Minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concent'red all in self.
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonor'd, and unsung.
COLUMBUS
Joaquin Miller
Behind him lay the gray Azores,
Behind the Gates of Hercules;
Before him not the ghost of shores,
Before him only shoreless seas.
The good mate said: "Now must we pray,
For lo! the very stars are gone,
Brave Adm'r'l, speak; what shall I say?"
"Why, say: 'Sail on! sail on! and on!'"
"My men grow mutinous day by day;
My men grow ghastly, wan and weak."
The stout mate thought of home; a spray
Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek.
"What shall I say, brave Adm'r'l, say,
If we sight naught but seas at dawn?"
"Why, you shall say at break of day:
'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!'"
They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow,
Until at last the blanched mate said:
"Why, now not even God would know
Should I and all my men fall dead.
These very winds forget their way,
For God from these dread seas is gone.
Now speak, brave Adm'r'l; speak and say--"
He said: "Sail on! sail on! and on!"
They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate:
"This mad sea shows his teeth tonight.
He curls his lip, he lies in wait,
He lifts his teeth, as if to bite!
Brave Adm'r'l, say but one good word:
What shall we do when hope is gone?"
The words leapt like a leaping sword:
"Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!"
Then, pale and worn, he paced his deck,
And peered through darkness. Ah, that night.
Of all dark nights! And then a speck--
A light! A light! At last a light!
It grew, a starlit flag unfurled!
It grew to be Time's burst of dawn.
He gained a world; he gave that world
Its grandest lesson: "On! sail on!"
THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS IN NEW ENGLAND
Felicia Browne Hemans
Look now abroad! Another race has fill'd
Those populous borders--wide the wood recedes,
And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are till'd;
The land is full of harvests and green meads.
--_Bryant_
The breaking waves dash'd high
On a stern and rockbound coast,
And the woods against a stormy sky
Their giant branches toss'd.
And the heavy night hung dark
The hills and waters o'er,
When a band of exiles moor'd their bark
On the wild New England shore.
Not as the conqueror comes,
They, the true-hearted, came;
Not with the roll of the stirring drums,
And the trumpet that sings of fame;
Not as the flying come,
In silence and in fear;--
They shook the depths of the desert gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer.
Amidst the storm they sang,
And the stars heard and the sea;
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang
To the anthem of the free!
The ocean eagle soar'd
From his nest by the white wave's foam;
And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd,--
This was their welcome home!
There were men with hoary hair
Amidst that pilgrim band;--
Why had _they_ come to wither here,
Away from their childhood's land?
There was woman's fearless eye,
Lit by her deep love's truth;
There was manhood's brow serenely high,
And the fiery heart of youth.
What sought they thus afar?
Bright jewels of the mine?
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?--
They sought a faith's pure shrine!
Ay, call it holy ground,
The soil where first they trod.
They have left unstained, what there they found--
Freedom to worship God.
CONCORD HYMN
SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE BATTLE MONUMENT, APRIL 19, 1836
Ralph Waldo Emerson
By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled.
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.
The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set today a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.
OLD IRONSIDES
Oliver Wendell Holmes
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky;
Beneath it rung the battle shout,
And burst the cannon's roar;--
The meteor of the ocean air
Shall sweep the clouds no more!
Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o'er the nood,
And waves were white below,
No more shall feel the victor's tread,
Or know the conquered knee;--
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!
O better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave;
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms,
The lightning and the gale!
O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!
Walt Whitman
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has wether'd every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck
You've fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult, O Shores, and ring, O Bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
LOVE LYRICS
TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS
Richard Lovelace
Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,
To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such,
As you, too, shall adore;
I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
Loved I not Honor more.
SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY
George Gordon Byron
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
A RED, RED ROSE
Robert Burns
O, my luve is like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June.
O, my luve is like the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I,
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun!
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve,
And fare thee weel a while!
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile!
POEMS OF NATURE
THE GREENWOOD TREE
William Shakespeare
Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And turn his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat--
Come hither, come hither, come hither!
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
Who doth ambition shun
And loves to live i' the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleased with what he gets--
Come hither, come hither, come hither!
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA
Allan Cunningham
A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
A wind that follows fast
And fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast!
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While, like the eagle free,
Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.
"O for a soft and gentle wind!"
I heard a fair one cry;
But give to me the swelling breeze,
And white waves heaving high:
The white waves heaving high, my lads,
The good ship tight and free;
LYRICS
The world of waters is our home.
And merry men are we.
There's tempest in yon horned moon,
And lightning in yon cloud;
And hark the music, mariners!
The wind is wakening loud.
The wind is wakening loud, my boys,
The lightning flashes free--
The hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.
I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD
William Wordsworth
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
THE RHODORA ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER?
Ralph Waldo Emerson
In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,
To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
The purple petals, fallen in the pool,
Made the black water with their beauty gay;
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,
And court the flower that cheapens his array.
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,
Then Beauty is its own excuse for being:
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
I never thought to ask, I never knew;
But, in my simple ignorance, suppose
The selfsame Power that brought me there brought you.
TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN
William Cullen Bryant
Thou blossom bright with autumn dew,
And colored with the heaven's own blue,
That openest when the quiet light
Succeeds the keen and frosty night.
Thou comest not when violets lean
O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
Or columbines, in purple drest,
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.
Thou waitest late, and com'st alone,
When woods are bare and birds are flown,
And frosts and shortening days portend
The aged year is near his end.
Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
Look through its fringes to the sky,
Blue--blue--as if that sky let fall
A flower from its cerulean wall.
I would that thus, when I shall see
The hour of death draw near to me,
Hope, blossoming within my heart,
May look to heaven as I depart.
THE EAGLE
Alfred Tennyson
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ringed with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET
John Keats
The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the grasshopper's--he takes the lead
In summer luxury,--he has never done
With his delights; for, when tired out with fun,
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never.
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one, in drowsiness half lost,
The grasshopper's among some grassy hills.
LESSONS FROM NATURE
TO A WATERFOWL
William Cullen Bryant
Whither, midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of days,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?
Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly seen against the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.
Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean-side?
There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,--
The desert and illimitable air,--
Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.
And soon that toil shall end;
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,
Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.
Thou'rt gone! the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart
Deeply has sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.
He who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.
THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS
Oliver Wendell Holmes
This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,
Sails the unshadowed main,--
The venturous bark that flings
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings
In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,
And coral reefs lie bare,
Where the cold sea maids rise to sun their streaming hair.
Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;
Wrecked is the ship of pearl!
And every chambered cell,
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,
Before thee lies revealed,--
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!
Year after year beheld the silent toil
That spread his lustrous coil;
Still, as the spiral grew,
He left the past year's dwelling for the new,
Stole with soft step its shining archway through,
Built up its idle door,
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.
Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,
Child of the wandering sea,
Cast from her lap, forlorn!
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born
Than ever Triton blew from wreathèd horn!
While on mine ear it rings,
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:--
Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
As the swift seasons roll!
Leave thy low-vaulted past!
Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free,
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!
THE BUGLE SONG
Alfred Tennyson
The splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story;
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O, hark, O, hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O, sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river;
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow forever and forever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
SONGS OF LIFE
THE NOBLE NATURE
Ben Jonson
It is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make men better be,
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:
A lily of a day,
Is fairer far, in May,
Although it fall and die that night;
It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions we just beauty see;
And in short measures, life may perfect be.
THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE
Sir Henry Wotton
How happy is he born and taught,
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armor is his honest thought,
And simple truth, his utmost skill;
Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Untied unto the world by care
Of public fame or private breath;
Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Nor vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise,
Nor rules of state, but rules of good;
Who hath his life from rumors freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors great;
Who God doth late and early pray,
More of his grace than gifts to lend,
And entertains the harmless day
With a religious book, or friend.
This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands,
And having nothing, yet hath all.
SAY NOT, THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT AVAILETH
Arthur Hugh Clough
Say not, the struggle nought availeth,
The labor and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been they remain.
If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
It may be, in yon smoke concealed,
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,
And, but for you, possess the field.
For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.
And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light,
In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly,
But westward, look, the land is bright.
FOR A' THAT AN' A' THAT
Robert Burns
Is there for honest poverty
That hings his head, an' a' that?
The coward slave, we pass him by,--
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Our toils obscure, an' a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that.
What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden gray, an' a' that?
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine--
A man's a man for a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their tinsel show, an' a 'that:
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.
Ye see yon birkie ca'd "a lord,"
Wha' struts an' stares, an' a 'that?
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a cuif for a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
His riband, star, an' a' that,
The man o' independent mind
He looks an' laughs at a' that.
A prince can mak' a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that!
But an honest man's aboon his might,--
Guid faith, he mauna fa' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their dignities an' a' that,
The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.
Then let us pray that come it may,
(As come it will for a' that)
That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree, an' a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
It's comin' yet, for a' that,
That man to man, the world o'er,
Shall brithers be for a' that.
INVICTUS
William Ernest Henly
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
OPPORTUNITY
Edward Rowland Sill
This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:--
There spread a cloud of dust along a plain;
And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged
A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords
Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's banner
Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes.
A craven hung along the battle's edge,
And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel--
That blue blade that the king's son bears,--but this
Blunt thing--!" he snapt and flung it from his hand,
And lowering crept away and left the field.
Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead,
And weaponless, and saw the broken sword,
Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand,
And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout
Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down,
And saved a great cause that heroic day.
A PSALM OF LIFE
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!--
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each tomorrow
Finds us farther than today.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,--act in the living Present,
Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;--
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
AESOP
THE DOG AND THE SHADOW
A Dog, crossing a little rivulet with a piece of meat in his mouth,
saw his own shadow represented in the clear mirror of the limpid
stream; and, believing it to be another dog, who was carrying a
larger piece of meat, he could not forbear catching at it; but was
so far from getting anything by his greedy design, that he dropped
the piece he had in his mouth, which immediately sank to the bottom,
and was irrecoverably lost.
THE FOX AND THE GRAPES
A Fox, very hungry, chanced to come into a vineyard, where there
hung branches of charming ripe grapes; but nailed up to a trellis so
high that he leaped till he quite tired himself without being able
to reach one of them. At last, "Let who will take them!" says he;
"they are but green and sour; so I will even let them alone."
THE HARE AND THE TORTOISE
A Hare laughed at a Tortoise upon account of his slowness, and
vainly boasted her own great speed in running. "Let us make a
match," replied the Tortoise; "I will run with you five miles for a
wager, and the fox yonder shall be the umpire of the race." The
Hare agreed; and away they both started together. But the Hare,
by reason of her exceeding swiftness, outran the Tortoise to such a
degree, that she made a jest of the matter; and thinking herself sure
of the race, squatted in a tuft of fern that grew by the way, and
took a nap, thinking that, if the Tortoise went by, she could at
any time overtake him with all the ease imaginable. In the meanwhile
the Tortoise came jogging on with slow but continued motion;
and the Hare out of a too great security and confidence of victory,
oversleeping herself, the Tortoise arrived at the end of the race
first.
THE SHEPHERD'S BOY
A certain Shepherd's Boy kept his sheep upon a common, and in
sport and wantonness would often cry out, "The wolf! the wolf!"
By this means he several times drew the husbandmen in an adjoining
field from their work; who, finding themselves deluded, resolved
for the future to take no notice of his alarm. Soon after, the
wolf came indeed. The Boy cried out in earnest; but no heed being
given to his cries, the sheep were devoured by the wolf.
THE HUSBANDMAN AND THE STORK
The Husbandman set a net in his fields to take the cranes and geese
which came to feed upon the new-sown barley. He succeeded in
taking several, both cranes and geese, and among them a Stork,
who pleaded hard for his life, and, among other apologies which
he made, alleged that he was neither goose nor crane, but a poor
harmless Stork, who performed his duty to his parents to all intents
and purposes, feeding them when they were old, and, as occasion
required, carrying them from place to place upon his back. "All
this may be true," replied the Husbandman; "but, as I have taken
you in bad company, and in the same crime, you must expect to
suffer the same punishment."
THE WIND AND THE SUN
A dispute once arose betwixt the North Wind and the Sun about
the superiority of their power; and they agreed to try their strength
upon a traveler, which should be able to get his cloak off first. The
North Wind began, and blew a very cold blast, accompanied with
a sharp, driving shower. But this, and whatever else he could do,
instead of making the man quit his cloak, obliged him to gird it
about his body as close as possible. Next came the Sun; who, breaking
out from a thick watery cloud, drove away the cold vapors from
the sky, and darted his warm, sultry beams upon the head of the
poor weather-beaten traveler. The man growing faint with the
heat, and unable to endure it any longer, first throws off his heavy
cloak, and then flies for protection to the shade of a neighboring
grove.
THE TORTOISE AND THE GEESE
[Footnote: This and the following fable are from _The Tortoise and
the Geese, and Other Fables of Bidpai,_ retold by Maude Barrows
Button.]
A Tortoise and two Geese lived together in a pond for many years.
At last there came a drought and dried up the pond. Then the
Geese said to one another,--
"We must seek a new home quickly, for we cannot live without
water. Let us say farewell to the Tortoise and start at once."
When the Tortoise heard that they were going, he trembled with
fear, and besought them by their friendship not to desert him.
"Alas," the Geese replied, "there is no help for it. If we stay
here, we shall all three die, and we cannot take you with us, for you
cannot fly."
Still the Tortoise begged so hard not to be left behind that the
Geese finally said,--
"Dear Friend, if you will promise not to speak a word on
the journey, we will take you with us. But know beforehand, that
if you open your mouth to say one single word, you will be in instant
danger of losing your life."
"Have no fear," replied the Tortoise, "but that I shall be silent
until you give me leave to speak again. I would rather never open
my mouth again than be left to die alone here in the dried-up pond."
So the Geese brought a stout stick and bade the Tortoise grasp it
firmly in the middle by his mouth. Then they took hold of either
end and flew off with him. They had gone several miles in safety,
when their course lay over a village. As the country people saw this
curious sight of a Tortoise being carried by two Geese, they began
to laugh and cry out,--
"Oh, did you ever see such a funny sight in all your life!" And
they laughed loud and long.
The Tortoise grew more and more indignant. At last he could
stand their jeering no longer. "You stupid..." he snapped, but
before he could say more he had fallen to the ground and was
dashed to pieces.
THE PARTRIDGE AND THE CROW
A Crow flying across a road saw a Partridge strutting along the
ground.
"What a beautiful gait that Partridge has!" said the Crow. "I
must try to see if I can walk like him."
She alighted behind the Partridge and tried for a long time to
learn to strut. At last the Partridge turned around and asked the
Crow what she was about.
"Do not be angry with me," replied the Crow. "I have never
before seen a bird who walks as beautifully as you can, and I am
trying to learn to walk like you."
"Foolish bird!" responded the Partridge. "You are a Crow, and
should walk like a Crow. You would look silly indeed if you were
to strut like a Partridge."
But the Crow went on trying to learn to strut, until finally she
had forgotten her own gait, and she never learned that of the Partridge.
JEAN DE LA FONTAINE
THE FOX AND THE GRAPES
A fox, almost with hunger dying,
Some grapes upon a trellis spying,
To all appearance ripe, clad in
Their tempting russet skin,
Most gladly would have eat them;
But since he could not get them,
So far above his reach the vine,--
"They're sour." he said; "such grapes as these
The dogs may eat them if they please."
--Did he not better than to whine?
THE WOLF AND THE STORK
The wolves are prone to play the glutton.
One, at a certain feast, 'tis said,
So stuffed himself with lamb and mutton,
He seemed but little short of dead.
Deep in his throat a bone stuck fast.
Well for this wolf, who could not speak,
That soon a stork quite near him passed.
By signs invited, with her beak
The bone she drew
With slight ado,
And for this skillful surgery
Demanded, modestly, her fee.
"Your fee!" replied the wolf,
In accents rather gruff;
"And is it not enough
Your neck is safe from such a gulf?
Go, for a wretch ingrate,
Nor tempt again your fate!"
TRADITIONAL
THE OLD WOMAN AND HER PIG
Joseph Jacobs
An old woman was sweeping her house, and she found a little
crooked sixpence. "What," said she, "shall I do with this little
sixpence? I will go to market, and buy a little pig."
As she was coming home, she came to a stile: but the piggy
wouldn't go over the stile.
She went a little further, and she met a dog. So she said to him:
"Dog! dog! bite pig; piggy won't go over the stile; and I shan't
get home tonight." But the dog wouldn't.
She went a little further, and she met a stick. So she said:
"Stick! stick! beat dog! dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get
over the stile; and I shan't get home tonight." But the stick
wouldn't.
She went a little further, and she met a fire. So she said:
"Fire! fire! burn stick; stick won't beat dog; dog won't bite pig;
piggy won't get over the stile; and I shan't get home tonight." But
the fire wouldn't.
She went a little further, and she met some water. So she said:
"Water! water! quench fire; fire won't burn stick; stick won't
beat dog; dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get over the stile; and
I shan't get home tonight." But the water wouldn't.
She went a little further, and she met an ox. So she said: "Ox!
ox! drink water; water won't quench fire; fire won't burn stick;
stick won't beat dog; dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get over the
stile; and I shan't get home tonight." But the ox wouldn't.
She went a little further, and she met a butcher. So she said:
"Butcher! butcher! kill ox; ox won't drink water; water won't
quench fire; fire won't burn stick; stick won't beat dog; dog won't
bite pig; piggy won't get over the stile; and I shan't get home
tonight." But the butcher wouldn't.
She went a little further, and she met a rope. So she said:
"Rope! rope! 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 dog; dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get over the stile; and I
shan't get home tonight." But the rope wouldn't.
She went a little further, and she met a rat. So she said: "Rat!
rat! 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 dog; dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get over
the stile; and I shan't get home tonight." But the rat wouldn't.
She went a little further, and she met a cat. So she said:
"Cat! cat! 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 dog; dog won't bite
pig; piggy won't get over the stile; and I shan't get home tonight."
But the cat said to her, "If you will go to yonder cow and
fetch me a saucer of milk, I will kill the rat." So away went the
old woman to the cow.
But the cow said to her: "If you will go to yonder haystack
and fetch me a handful of hay, I'll give you the milk." So away
went the old woman to the haystack; and she brought the hay to the
cow.
As soon as the cow had eaten the hay, she gave the old woman
the milk; and away she went with it in a saucer to the cat.
As soon as the cat had lapped up the milk, 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 dog; the dog began to bite the
pig; the little pig in fright jumped over the stile; and so the old
woman got home that night.
THE STORY OF THE THREE LITTLE PIGS
Joseph Jacobs
There was once an old sow with three little pigs, and as she
had not enough to keep them, she sent them out to seek their
fortune. The first that went off met a man with a bundle of straw,
and said to him:
"Please, man, give me that straw to build me a house."
Which the man did, and the little pig built a house with it.
Presently came along a wolf, and knocked at the door, and said:
"Little pig, little pig, let me come in."
To which the pig answered:
"No, no, by the hair of my chiny chin chin."
The wolf then answered to that:
"Then I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in."
So he huffed, and he puffed, and he blew his house in, and ate up
the little pig.
The second little pig met a man with a bundle of furze, and said:
"Please, man, give me that furze to build a house."
Which the man did, and the pig built his house. Then along came
the wolf, and said:
"Little pig, little pig, let me come in."
"No, no, by the hair of my chiny chin chin."
"Then I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in."
So he huffed, and he puffed, and he puffed, and he huffed, and at
last he blew the house in, and he ate up the little pig.
The third little pig met a man with a load of bricks, and said:
"Please, man, give me those bricks to build a house with."
So the man gave him the bricks, and he built his house with
them. So the wolf came, as he did to the other little pigs, and said:
"Little pig, little pig, let me come in."
"No, no, by the hair of my chiny chin chin."
"Then I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in."
Well, he huffed, and he puffed, and he huffed, and he puffed,
and he puffed and huffed; but he could _not_ get the house down.
When he found that he could not, with all his huffing and puffing,
blow the house down, he said:
"Little pig, I know where there is a nice field of turnips."
"Where?" said the little pig.
"Oh, in Mr. Smith's Home-field, and if you will be ready tomorrow
morning, I will call for you, and we will go together and
get some for dinner."
"Very well," said the little pig, "I will be ready. What time
do you mean to go?"
"Oh, at six o'clock."
Well, the little pig got up at five, and got the turnips before the
wolf came (which he did about six), who said:
"Little pig, are you ready?"
The little pig said: "Ready? I have been and come back again,
and got a nice potful for dinner."
The wolf felt very angry at this, but thought that he would be
up to the little pig somehow or other, so he said:
"Little pig, I know where there is a nice apple tree."
"Where?" said the pig.
"Down at Merry-garden," replied the wolf, "and if you will
not deceive me, I will come for you at five o'clock tomorrow and
get some apples."
Well, the little pig bustled up the next morning at four o'clock,
and went for the apples, hoping to get back before the wolf came;
but he had further to go, and had to climb the tree, so that just as
he was coming down from it, he saw the wolf coming, which, as you
may suppose, frightened him very much. When the wolf came up,
he said:
"Little pig, what! are you here before me? Are they nice
apples?"
"Yes, very," said the little pig. "I will throw you down
one."
And he threw it so far, that, while the wolf was gone to pick it
up, the little pig jumped down and ran home. The next day the
wolf came again, and said to the little pig:
"Little pig, there is a fair at Shanklin this afternoon. Will you
go?
"Oh, yes," said the pig, "I will go; what time shall you be
ready?"
"At three," said the wolf. So the little pig went off before the
time as usual, and got to the fair, and bought a butter churn, which
he was going home with when he saw the wolf coming. Then he
could not tell what to do. So he got into the churn to hide, and by
so doing turned it round, and it rolled down the hill with the pig in
it, which frightened the wolf so much that he ran home without
going to the fair. He went to the little pig's house, and told him
how frightened he had been by a great round thing which came down
the hill past him. Then the little pig said:
"Hah, I frightened you, then. I had been to the fair and bought
a butter churn, and when I saw you, I got into it and rolled down
the hill."
Then the wolf was very angry indeed, and declared he would eat
up the little pig, and that he would get down the chimney after
him. When the little pig saw what he was about, he hung on the
pot full of water and made up a blazing fire, and, just as the wolf
was coming down, took off the cover, and in fell the wolf; so the
little pig put on the cover again in an instant, boiled him up, and
ate him for supper, and lived happy ever afterwards.
HANS IN LUCK
Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm
Hans had served his master seven years, and at last said to him,
"Master, my time is up; I should like to go home and see my
mother; so give me my wages." And the master said, "You have
been a faithful and good servant, so your pay shall be handsome."
Then he gave him a piece of silver that was as big as his head.
Hans took out his pocket handkerchief, put the piece of silver
into it, threw it over his shoulder, and jogged off homewards. As
he went lazily on, dragging one foot after the other, a man came in
sight, trotting along gayly on a capital horse. "Ah!" cried Hans
aloud, "what a fine thing it is to ride on horseback! he trips
against no stones, spares his shoes, and yet gets on he hardly knows
how." The horseman heard this, and said, "Well, Hans, why do
you go on foot, then?" "Ah!" said he, "I have this load to carry;
to be sure it is silver, but it is so heavy that I can't hold up my
head, and it hurts my shoulders sadly." "What do you say to
changing?" said the horseman; "I will give you my horse, and you
shall give me the silver." "With all my heart," said Hans; "but
I tell you one thing,--you'll have a weary task to drag it along."
The horseman got off, took the silver, helped Hans up, gave him the
bridle into his hand, and said, "When you want to go very fast,
you must smack your lips loud, and cry 'Jip.'"
Hans was delighted as he sat on the horse, and rode merrily on.
After a time he thought he should like to go a little faster, so he
smacked his lips and cried, "Jip." Away went the horse full gallop;
and before Hans knew what he was about, he was thrown off,
and lay in a ditch by the roadside; and his horse would have run
off, if a shepherd who was coming by, driving a cow, had not stopped
it. Hans soon came to himself, and got upon his legs again. He
was sadly vexed, and said to the shepherd, "This riding is no joke
when a man gets on a beast like this, that stumbles and flings him
off as if he would break his neck. However, I am off now once for
all; I like your cow a great deal better; one can walk along at one's
leisure behind her, and have milk, butter, and cheese every day into
the bargain. What would I give to have such a cow!" "Well,"
said the shepherd, "if you are so fond of her, I will change my
cow for your horse." "Done!" said Hans merrily. The shepherd
jumped upon the horse, and away he rode.
Hans drove off his cow quietly, and thought his bargain a very
lucky one. "If I have only a piece of bread, I can, whenever I
like, eat my butter and cheese with it; and when I am thirsty, I can
milk my cow and drink the milk: what can I wish for more?"
When he came to an inn, he halted, ate up all his bread, and gave his
last penny for a glass of beer: then he drove his cow towards his
mother's village; and the heat grew greater as noon came on, till
he began to be so hot and parched that his tongue clave to the roof
of his mouth. "I can find a cure for this," thought he; "now will
I milk my cow and quench my thirst;" so he tied her to the stump
of a tree, and held his leather cap to milk into; but not a drop was
to be had.
While he was trying his luck and managing the matter very clumsily,
the uneasy beast gave him a kick on the head that knocked him
down, and there he lay a long while senseless. Luckily a butcher
soon came by, wheeling a pig in a wheelbarrow. "What is the matter
with you?" said the butcher, as he helped him up. Hans told
him what had happened, and the butcher gave him a flask, saying,
"There, drink and refresh yourself; your cow will give you no
milk, she is an old beast good for nothing but the slaughterhouse."
"Alas, alas!" said Hans, "who would have thought it? If I kill
her, what would she be good for? I hate cow beef, it is not tender
enough for me. If it were a pig now, one could do something
with it; it would, at any rate, make some sausages." "Well," said
the butcher, "to please you I'll change, and give you the pig for
the cow." "Heaven reward you for your kindness!" said Hans. as
he gave the butcher the cow, and took the pig off the wheelbarrow,
and drove it off, holding it by the string that was tied to its leg.
So on he jogged, and all seemed now to go right with him. The
next person he met was a countryman, carrying a fine white goose
under his arm. The countryman stopped to ask what o'clock it was;
and Hans told him all his luck, and how he had made so many
good bargains. The countryman said he was going to take the
goose to a christening. "Feel," said he, "how heavy it is, and yet
it is only eight weeks old. Whoever roasts and eats it, may cut
plenty of fat off it, it has lived so well!" "You're right," said
Hans, as he weighed it in his hand; "but my pig is no trifle." Meantime
the countryman began to look grave, and shook his head.
"Hark ye," said he, "my good friend; your pig may get you into a
scrape; in the village I have just come from, the squire has had a
pig stolen out of his sty. I was dreadfully afraid, when I saw you,
that you had got the squire's pig; it will be a bad job if they
catch you; the least they'll do will be to throw you into the horse
pond."
Poor Hans was sadly frightened. "Good man," cried he, "pray
get me out of this scrape; you know this country better than I; take
my pig and give me the goose." "I ought to have something into
the bargain," said the countryman; "however, I will not bear hard
upon you, as you are in trouble." Then he took the string in his
hand, and drove off the pig by a side path; while Hans went on
the way homewards free from care.
As he came to the last village, he saw a scissors grinder, with
his wheel, working away, and singing. Hans stood looking for a
while, and at last said, "You must be well off, master grinder, you
seem so happy at your work." "Yes," said the other, "mine is a
golden trade; a good grinder never puts his hand in his pocket
without finding money in it:--but where did you get that beautiful
goose?" "I did not buy it, but changed a pig for it." "And
where did you get the pig?" "I gave a cow for it." "And the
cow?" "I gave a horse for it." "And the horse?" "I gave a
piece of silver as big as my head for that." "And the silver?"
"Oh, I worked hard for that seven long years." "You have thriven
well in the world hitherto," said the grinder; "now if you could find
money in your pocket whenever you put your hand into it, your
fortune would be made." "Very true: but how is that to be managed?"
"You must turn grinder like me," said the other: "you only want a
grindstone; the rest will come of itself. Here is one that is a
little the worse for wear: I would not ask more than the value of
your goose for it;--will you buy?" "How can you ask such a question?"
replied Hans; "I should be the happiest man in the world if I could
have money whenever I put my hand in my pocket; what could I want
more? there's the goose!" "Now," said the grinder, as he gave him
a rough stone that lay by his side, "this is a most capital stone;
do but manage it cleverly, and you can make an old nail cut with
it."
Hans took the stone and went off with a light heart; his eyes
sparkled for joy, and he said to himself, "I must have been born in
a lucky hour; everything that I want or wish for comes to me of
itself."
Meantime he began to be tired, for he had been traveling ever
since daybreak; he was hungry, too, for he had given away his
last penny in his joy at getting the cow. At last he could go no
further, and the stone tired him terribly; he dragged himself to the
side of a pond, that he might drink some water and rest awhile; so he
laid the stone carefully by his side on the bank: but as he stooped
down to drink, he forgot it, pushed it a little, and down it went
plump into the pond. For a while he watched it sinking in the deep,
clear water, then sprang up for joy, and again fell upon his knees,
and thanked heaven with tears in his eyes for its kindness in taking
away his only plague, the ugly heavy stone. "How happy am I,"
cried he: "no mortal was ever so lucky as I am." Then up he got
with a light and merry heart, and walked on free from all his
troubles, till he reached his mother's house.
THE VALIANT LITTLE TAILOR
Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm
One summer's morning a little tailor was sitting on his table by
the window; he was in good spirits, and sewed with all his might.
Then came a peasant woman down the street, crying, "Good jams,
cheap! Good jams, cheap!" This rang pleasantly in the tailor's
ears; he stretched his delicate head out of the window, and called,
"Come up here, dear woman; here you will get rid of your goods."
The woman came up the three steps to the tailor with her heavy
basket, and he made her unpack the whole of the pots for him. He
inspected all of them, lifted them up, put his nose to them, and at
length said, "The jam seems to me to be good, so weigh me out
four ounces, dear woman, and if it is a quarter of a pound that is
of no consequence." The woman, who had hoped to find a good
sale, gave him what he desired, but went away quite angry and
grumbling. "Now God bless the jam to my use," cried the little
tailor, "and give me health and strength;" so he brought the bread
out of the cupboard, cut himself a piece right across the loaf and
spread the jam over it. "That won't taste bitter," said he, "but I
will just finish the jacket before I take a bite." He laid the bread
near him, sewed on, and, in his joy, made bigger and bigger stitches.
In the meantime the smell of the sweet jam ascended so to the
wall, where the flies were sitting in great numbers, that they were
attracted and descended on it in hosts. "Hola! who invited you?"
said the little tailor, and drove the unbidden guests away. The
flies, however, who understood no German, would not be turned
away, but came back again in ever increasing companies.
Then the little tailor lost all patience, and got a bit of cloth from
the hole under his work table, and saying, "Wait, and I will give it
to you," struck it mercilessly on them. When he drew it away
and counted, there lay before him no fewer than seven, dead and
with legs stretched out.
"Art thou a fellow of that sort?" said he, and could not help
admiring his own bravery. "The whole town shall know of this!"
And the little tailor hastened to cut himself a girdle, stitched it, and
embroidered on it in large letters, "Seven at one stroke!" "What,
the town!" he continued, "the whole world shall hear of it!" and
his heart wagged with joy like a lamb's tail. The tailor put on
the girdle, and resolved to go forth into the world, because he
thought his workshop was too small for his valor.
Before he went away, he sought about in the house to see if there
was anything which he could take with him; however, he found
nothing but an old cheese, and that he put in his pocket. In front
of the door he observed a bird which had caught itself in the thicket.
It had to go into his pocket with the cheese.
Now he took to the road boldly, and as he was light and nimble,
he felt no fatigue. The road led him up a mountain, and when he
had reached the highest point of it, there sat a powerful giant looking
about him quite comfortably.
The little tailor went bravely up, spoke to him, and said, "Good
day, comrade, so thou art sitting there overlooking the wide-spread
world! I am just on my way thither, and want to try my luck. Hast
thou any inclination to go with me?" The giant looked contemptuously
at the tailor, and said, "Thou ragamuffin! Thou miserable creature!"
"Oh, indeed?" answered the little tailor, and unbuttoned his coat
and showed the giant the girdle. "There mayst thou read what
kind of a man I am!" The giant read, "Seven at one stroke!" and
thought that they had been men whom the tailor had killed, and
began to feel a little respect for the tiny fellow. Nevertheless he
wished to try him first, and took a stone in his hand and squeezed
it together so that the water dropped out of it. "Do that likewise,"
said the giant, "if thou hast strength." "Is that all?"
said the tailor, "that is child's play with us!" and put his hand into
his pocket, brought out the soft cheese, and pressed it until the
liquid ran out of it. "Faith," said he, "that was a little better,
wasn't it?"
The giant did not know what to say and could not believe it of the
little man. Then the giant picked up a stone and threw it so high
that the eye could scarcely follow it. "Now, little mite of a man,
do that likewise." "Well thrown," said the tailor, "but after all
the stone came down to earth again; I will throw you one which shall
never come back at all," and he put his hand into his pocket, took
out the bird, and threw it into the air. The bird, delighted with its
liberty, rose, flew away, and did not come back. "How does that
shot please you, comrade?" asked the tailor.
"Thou canst certainly throw," said the giant, "but now we will
see if thou art able to carry anything properly." He took the little
tailor to a mighty oak tree which lay there felled to the ground,
and said, "If thou art strong enough, help me to carry the tree
out of the forest." "Readily," answered the little man; "take thou
the trunk on thy shoulders, and I will raise up the branches and
twigs; after all, they are the heaviest." The giant took the trunk on
his shoulder, but the tailor seated himself on a branch, and the
giant, who could not look round, had to carry away the whole tree
and the little tailor into the bargain. He, behind, was quite merry
and happy and whistled the song, "Three tailors rode forth from the
gate," as if carrying the tree were child's play. The giant, after
he had dragged the heavy burden part of the way, could go no
further, and cried, "Hark you, I shall have to let the tree fall!"
The tailor sprang nimbly down, seized the tree with both arms as if
he had been carrying it, and said to the giant, "Thou art such a
great fellow, and yet thou canst not even carry the tree!"
They went on together; and as they passed a cherry tree, the
giant laid hold of the top of the tree where the ripest fruit was
hanging, bent it down, gave it into the tailor's hand, and bade him
eat. But the little tailor was much too weak to hold the tree;
and when the giant let it go, it sprang back again, and the tailor
was hurried into the air with it. When he had fallen down again
without injury, the giant said, "What is this? Hast thou not
strength enough to hold the weak twig?" "There is no lack of
strength," answered the little tailor. "Dost thou think that could
be anything to a man who has struck down seven at one blow?
I leapt over the tree because the huntsmen are shooting down there
in the thicket. Jump as I did, if thou canst do it." The giant
made the attempt, but could not get over the tree, and remained
hanging in the branches, so that in this also the tailor kept the
upper hand.
The giant said, "If thou art such a valiant fellow, come with me
into our cavern and spend the night with us." The little tailor was
willing, and followed him. When they went into the cave, other
giants were sitting there by the fire, and each of them had a roasted
sheep in his hand and was eating it. The little tailor looked round
and thought, "It is much more spacious here than in my workshop."
The giant showed him a bed and said he was to lie down in it and
sleep. The bed was, however, too big for the little tailor; he did
not lie down in it but crept into a corner. When it was midnight,
and the giant thought the little tailor was lying in a sound sleep,
he got up, took a great iron bar, cut through the bed with one blow,
and thought he had given the grasshopper his finishing stroke. With
the earliest dawn the giants went into the forest, and had quite
forgotten the little tailor, when all at once he walked up to them
quite merrily and boldly. The giants were terrified; they were afraid
that he would strike them all dead, and ran away in a great hurry.
The little tailor went onwards, always following his own pointed
nose. After he had walked for a long time, he came to the courtyard
of a royal palace, and as he felt weary he lay down on the grass
and fell asleep. Whilst he lay there, the people came and inspected
him on all sides, and read on his girdle, "Seven at one stroke!"
"Ah!" said they, "what does a great warrior here in the midst
of peace? He must be a mighty lord." They went and announced
him to the King, and gave it as their opinion that if war should
break out, this would be a weighty and useful man, who ought on no
account to be allowed to depart. The counsel pleased the King, and
he sent one of his courtiers to the little tailor to offer him military
service when he awoke. The ambassador remained standing by the sleeper,
waited until he stretched his limbs and opened his eyes, and then
conveyed to him this proposal. "For this very reason have I come here,"
the tailor replied; "I am ready to enter the King's service." He was
therefore honorably received, and a separate dwelling was assigned to
him.
The soldiers, however, were set against the little tailor, and wished
him a thousand miles away. "What is to be the end of this?" they
said amongst themselves. "If we quarrel with him and he strikes
about him, seven of us will fall at every blow; not one of us can
stand against him." They came therefore to a decision, betook
themselves in a body to the King, and begged for their dismissal.
"We are not prepared," said they, "to stay with a man who kills
seven at one stroke." The King was sorry that for the sake of one he
should lose all his faithful servants, wished that he had never set
eyes on the tailor, and would willingly have been rid of him again.
But he did not venture to give him his dismissal, for he dreaded lest
he should strike him and all his people dead and place himself on the
royal throne. He thought about it for a long time and at last found
good counsel. He sent to the little tailor and caused him to be informed
that as he was such a great warrior, he had one request to make to him.
In a forest of his country lived two giants, who caused great mischief
with their robbing, murdering, ravaging, and burning, and no one could
approach them without putting himself in danger of death. If the tailor
conquered and killed these two giants, he would give him his only
daughter to wife and half his kingdom as a dowry, likewise one hundred
horsemen should go with him to assist him. "That would indeed be a fine
thing for a man like me!" thought the little tailor. "One is not
offered a beautiful princess and half a kingdom every day of one's
life!" "Oh, yes," he replied, "I will soon subdue the giants, and do
not require the help of the hundred horsemen to do it; he who can hit
seven with one blow has no need to be afraid of two."
The little tailor went forth, and the hundred horsemen followed
him. When he came to the outskirts of the forest, he said to his
followers, "Just stay waiting here, I alone will soon finish off the
giants." Then he bounded into the forest and looked about right
and left. After a while he perceived both giants. They lay sleeping
under a tree and snored so that the branches waved up and
down. The little tailor, not idle, gathered two pocketfuls of stones
and with these climbed up a tree. When he was halfway up, he
slipped down by a branch until he sat just above the sleepers, and
then let one stone after another fall on the breast of one of the
giants. For a long time the giant felt nothing, but at last he awoke,
pushed his comrade, and said, "Why art thou knocking me?"
"Thou must be dreaming," said the other; "I am not knocking
thee." They laid themselves down to sleep again, and then the
tailor threw a stone down on the second. "What is the meaning of
this?" cried the other. "Why art thou pelting me?" "I am not
pelting thee," answered the first, growling. They disputed about
it for a time, but as they were weary they let the matter rest, and
their eyes closed once more. The little tailor began his game again,
picked out the biggest stone, and threw it with all his might on the
breast of the first giant. "That is too bad!" cried he, and sprang
up like a madman, and pushed his companion against the tree until
it shook. The other paid him back in the same coin, and they got
into such a rage that they tore up trees and belabored each other so
long that at last they both fell down dead on the ground at the
same time. Then the little tailor leapt down. "It is a lucky
thing," said he, "that they did not tear up the tree on which I was
sitting, or I should have had to spring on to another like a squirrel;
but we tailors are nimble." He drew out his sword and gave each of
them a couple of thrusts in the breast, and then went out to the
horsemen and said, "The work is done; I have given them both their
finishing stroke, but it was hard work! They tore up trees in
their sore need, and defended themselves with them, but all that is
to no purpose when a man like myself comes, who can kill seven
at one blow." "But are you not wounded?" asked the horsemen.
"You need not concern yourself about that," answered the tailor.
"They have not bent one hair of mine." The horsemen would not
believe him, and rode into the forest; there they found the giants
swimming in their blood, and all round about lay the torn-up
trees.
The little tailor demanded of the King the promised reward; he,
however, repented of his promise, and again bethought himself
how he could get rid of the hero. "Before thou receivest my daughter
and the half of my kingdom," said he to him," thou must perform
one more heroic deed. In the forest roams a unicorn which
does great harm, and thou must catch it first." "I fear one unicorn
still less than two giants. Seven at one blow is my kind of affair."
He took a rope and an ax with him, went forth into the forest, and
again bade those who went with him to wait outside. He had not to
seek long. The unicorn soon came towards him and rushed directly
on the tailor, as if it would spit him on its horn without more
ceremony. "Softly, softly; it can't be done as quickly as that,"
said he, and stood still and waited until the animal was quite close,
and then sprang nimbly behind the tree. The unicorn ran against
the tree with all its strength, and struck its horn so fast in the
trunk that it had not strength enough to draw it out again, and
thus it was caught. "Now I have got the bird," said the tailor, and
came out from behind the tree and put the rope round its neck, and
then with his ax he hewed the horn out of the tree, and when all
was ready he led the beast away and took it to the King.
The King still would not give him the promised reward, and made
a third demand. Before the wedding the tailor was to catch him a
wild boar that made great havoc in the forest, and the hunts--
men should give him their help. "Willingly," said the tailor, "that
is child's play!" He did not take the huntsmen with him into the
forest, and they were well pleased that he did not, for the wild boar
had several times received them in such a manner that they had
no inclination to lie in wait for him. When the boar perceived the
tailor, it ran on him with foaming mouth and whetted tusks, and
was about to throw him to the ground, but the active hero sprang into
a chapel, which was near, and up to the window at once, and in one
bound was out again. The boar ran in after him, but the tailor
ran round outside and shut the door behind it, and then the raging
beast, which was much too heavy and awkward to leap out of the
window, was caught. The little tailor called the huntsmen thither,
that they might see the prisoner with their own eyes. The hero, however,
went to the King, who was now, whether he liked it or not, obliged to
keep his promise, and gave him his daughter and the half of his kingdom.
Had he known that it was no warlike hero but a little tailor who was
standing before him, it would have gone to his heart still more than
it did. The wedding was held with great magnificence and small joy,
and out of the tailor a king was made.
After some time the young Queen heard her husband say in his
dreams at night, "Boy, make me the doublet and patch the pantaloons,
or else I will rap the yard measure over thine ears." Then
she discovered in what state of life the young lord had been born,
and next morning complained of her wrongs to her father, and
begged him to help her to get rid of her husband, who was nothing
else but a tailor. The King comforted her and said, "Leave thy
bedroom door open this night, and my servants shall stand outside,
and when he has fallen asleep shall go in, bind him, and take him
on board a ship which shall carry him into the wide world." The
woman was satisfied with this; but the King's armor-bearer, who
had heard all, was friendly with the young lord, and informed him of
the whole plot. "I'll put a screw into that business," said the little
tailor. At night he went to bed with his wife at the usual time, and
when she thought that he had fallen asleep, she got up, opened the
door, and then lay down again. The little tailor, who was only
pretending to be asleep, began to cry out in a clear voice, "Boy, make
me the doublet and patch me the pantaloons, or I will rap the yard
measure over thine ears. I smote seven at one blow, I killed two
giants, I brought away one unicorn and caught a wild boar, and am I to
fear those who are standing outside the room?" When these men
heard the tailor speaking thus, they were overcome with a great
dread, and ran as if the wild huntsman were behind them, and none
of them would venture anything further against him. So the little
tailor was a king and remained one, to the end of his life.
CINDERELLA, OR THE LITTLE GLASS SLIPPER
Charles Perrault
Once upon a time there was a gentleman who married, for his
second wife, the proudest and most haughty woman that ever was
seen. She had two daughters of her own, who were, indeed, exactly
like her in all things. The gentleman had also a young daughter, of
rare goodness and sweetness of temper, which she took from her
mother, who was the best creature in the world.
The wedding was scarcely over, when the stepmother's bad temper
began to show itself. She could not bear the goodness of this
young girl, because it made her own daughters appear the more
odious. The stepmother gave her the meanest work in the house
to do; she had to scour the dishes, tables, etc., and to scrub the floors
and clean out the bedrooms. The poor girl had to sleep in the
garret, upon a wretched straw bed, while her sisters lay in fine
rooms with inlaid floors, upon beds of the very newest fashion, and
where they had looking-glasses so large that they might see themselves
at their full length. The poor girl bore all patiently, and
dared not complain to her father, who would have scolded her if she
had done so, for his wife governed him entirely.
When she had done her work, she used to go into the chimney corner,
and sit down among the cinders; hence she was called Cinderwench.
The younger sister of the two, who was not so rude and uncivil as
the elder, called her Cinderella. However, Cinderella, in spite of
her mean apparel, was a hundred times more handsome than her sisters,
though they were always richly dressed.
It happened that the King's son gave a ball, and invited to it
all persons of fashion. Our young misses were also invited, for
they cut a very grand figure among the people of the countryside.
They were highly delighted with the invitation, and wonderfully
busy in choosing the gowns, petticoats, and head-dresses
which might best become them. This made Cinderella's lot still
harder, for it was she who ironed her sisters' linen and plaited
their ruffles. They talked all day long of nothing but how they
should be dressed.
"For my part," said the elder, "I will wear my red velvet suit
with French trimmings."
"And I," said the younger, "shall wear my usual skirt; but then,
to make amends for that, I will put on my gold-flowered mantle, and
my diamond stomacher, which is far from being the most ordinary
one in the world." They sent for the best hairdressers they could
get, to make up their hair in fashionable style, and bought patches
for their cheeks. Cinderella was consulted in all these matters,
for she had good taste. She advised them always for the best,
and even offered her services to dress their hair, which they were
very willing she should do..
As she was doing this, they said to her:
"Cinderella, would you not be glad to go to the ball?"
"Young ladies," she said, "you only jeer at me; it is not for
such as I am to go there."
"You are right," they replied; "people would laugh to see a
Cinderwench at a ball."
Any one but Cinderella would have dressed their hair awry, but
she was good-natured, and arranged it perfectly well. They were
almost two days without eating, so much were they transported with
joy. They broke above a dozen laces in trying to lace themselves
tight, that they might have a fine, slender shape, and they were
continually at their looking-glass.
At last the happy day came; they went to Court, and Cinderella
followed them with her eyes as long as she could, and when she
had lost sight of them, she fell a-crying.
Her godmother, who saw her all in tears, asked her what was
the matter.
"I wish I could--I wish I could--" but she could not finish for
sobbing.
Her godmother, who was a fairy, said to her, "You wish you
could go to the ball; is it not so?"
"Alas, yes," said Cinderella, sighing.
"Well," said her godmother, "be but a good girl, and I will see
that you go." Then she took her into her chamber, and said to
her, "Run into the garden, and bring me a pumpkin."
Cinderella went at once to gather the finest she could get, and
brought it to her godmother, not being able to imagine how this
pumpkin could help her to go to the ball. Her godmother scooped
out all the inside of it, leaving nothing but the rind. Then she
struck it with her wand, and the pumpkin was instantly turned into
a fine gilded coach.
She then went to look into the mousetrap, where she found six
mice, all alive. She ordered Cinderella to lift the trapdoor, when,
giving each mouse, as it went out, a little tap with her wand, it was
that moment turned into a fine horse, and the six mice made a fine
set of six horses of a beautiful mouse-colored, dapple gray.
Being at a loss for a coachman, Cinderella said, "I will go and
see if there is not a rat in the rat-trap--we may make a coachman
of him."
"You are right," replied her godmother; "go and look."
Cinderella brought the rat-trap to her, and in it there were three
huge rats. The fairy chose the one which had the largest beard,
and, having touched him with her wand, he was turned into a fat
coachman with the finest mustache and whiskers ever seen.
After that, she said to her:
"Go into the garden, and you will find six lizards behind the
watering pot; bring them to me."
She had no sooner done so than her godmother turned them into
six footmen, who skipped up immediately behind the coach, with
their liveries all trimmed with gold and silver, and they held on
as if they had done nothing else their whole lives.
The fairy then said to Cinderella, "Well, you see here a carriage fit
to go to the ball in; are you not pleased with it?"
"Oh, yes!" she cried; "but must I go as I am in these rags?"
Her godmother simply touched her with her wand, and, at the
same moment, her clothes were turned into cloth of gold and
silver, all decked with jewels. This done, she gave her a pair of
the prettiest glass slippers in the whole world. Being thus attired,
she got into the carriage, her godmother commanding her, above all
things, not to stay till after midnight, and telling her, at the same
time, that if she stayed one moment longer, the coach would be a
pumpkin again, her horses mice, her coachman a rat, her footmen
lizards, and her clothes would become just as they were before.
She promised her godmother she would not fail to leave the ball
before midnight. She drove away, scarce able to contain herself
for joy. The King's son, who was told that a great princess, whom
nobody knew, was come, ran out to receive her. He gave her his
hand as she alighted from the coach, and led her into the hall where
the company were assembled. There was at once a profound silence;
every one left off dancing, and the violins ceased to play, so attracted
was every one by the singular beauties of the unknown newcomer.
Nothing was then heard but a confused sound of voices saying:
"Ha! how beautiful she is! Ha! how beautiful she is!"
The King himself, old as he was, could not keep his eyes off her,
and he told the Queen under his breath that it was a long time since
he had seen so beautiful and lovely a creature.
All the ladies were busy studying her clothes and head-dress, so
that they might have theirs made next day after the same pattern,
provided they could meet with such fine materials and able hands to
make them.
The King's son conducted her to the seat of honor, and afterwards
took her out to dance with him. She danced so very gracefully that
they all admired her more and more. A fine collation was served,
but the young Prince ate not a morsel, so intently was he occupied
with her.
She went and sat down beside her sisters, showing them a thousand
civilities, and giving them among other things part of the oranges
and citrons with which the Prince had regaled her. This very
much surprised them, for they had not been presented to her.
Cinderella heard the clock strike a quarter to twelve. She at
once made her adieus to the company and hastened away as fast as
she could.
As soon as she got home, she ran to find her godmother, and
after having thanked her, she said she much wished she might go
to the ball the next day, because the King's son had asked her to do
so. As she was eagerly telling her godmother all that happened
at the ball, her two sisters knocked at the door; Cinderella opened
it. "How long you have stayed!" said she, yawning, rubbing her
eyes, and stretching herself as if she had been just awakened. She
had not, however, had any desire to sleep since they went from
home.
"If you had been at the ball," said one of her sisters, "you
would not have been tired with it. There came thither the finest
princess, the most beautiful ever was seen with mortal eyes. She
showed us a thousand civilities, and gave us oranges and citrons."
Cinderella did not show any pleasure at this. Indeed, she asked
them the name of the princess; but they told her they did not know
it, and that the King's son was very much concerned, and would
give all the world to know who she was. At this Cinderella, smiling,
replied:
"Was she then so very beautiful? How fortunate you have been!
Could I not see her? Ah! dear Miss Charlotte, do lend me your
yellow suit of clothes which you wear every day."
"Ay, to be sure!" cried Miss Charlotte; "lend my clothes to
such a dirty Cinderwench as thou art! I should be out of my
mind to do so."
Cinderella, indeed, expected such an answer and was very glad
of the refusal; for she would have been sadly troubled if her sister
had lent her what she jestingly asked for. The next day the two
sisters went to the ball, and so did Cinderella, but dressed more
magnificently than before. The King's son was always by her
side, and his pretty speeches to her never ceased. These by no
means annoyed the young lady. Indeed, she quite forgot her godmother's
orders to her, so that she heard the clock begin to strike
twelve when she thought it could not be more than eleven. She
then rose up and fled, as nimble as a deer. The Prince followed, but
could not overtake her. She left behind one of her glass slippers,
which the Prince took up most carefully. She got home, but quite
out of breath, without her carriage, and in her old clothes, having
nothing left her of all her finery but one of the little slippers, fellow
to the one she had dropped. The guards at the palace gate were
asked if they had not seen a princess go out, and they replied they
had seen nobody go out but a young girl, very meanly dressed, and
who had more the air of a poor country girl than of a young lady.
When the two sisters returned from the ball, Cinderella asked them
if they had a pleasant time, and if the fine lady had been there.
They told her, yes; but that she hurried away the moment it struck
twelve, and with so much haste that she dropped one of her little
glass slippers, the prettiest in the world, which the King's son had
taken up. They said, further, that he had done nothing but look
at her all the time, and that most certainly he was very much in
love with the beautiful owner of the glass slipper.
What they said was true; for a few days after the King's son
caused it to be proclaimed, by sound of trumpet, that he would
marry her whose foot this slipper would fit exactly. They began
to try it on the princesses, then on the duchesses, and then on all the
ladies of the Court; but in vain. It was brought to the two sisters,
who did all they possibly could to thrust a foot into the slipper, but
they could not succeed. Cinderella, who saw this, and knew her
slipper, said to them, laughing:
"Let me see if it will not fit me."
Her sisters burst out a-laughing, and began to banter her. The
gentleman who was sent to try the slipper looked earnestly at
Cinderella, and, finding her very handsome, said it was but just
that she should try, and that he had orders to let every lady try it
on.
He obliged Cinderella to sit down, and, putting the slipper to her
little foot, he found it went on very easily, and fitted her as if it had
been made of wax. The astonishment of her two sisters was great,
but it was still greater when Cinderella pulled out of her pocket the
other slipper and put it on her foot. Thereupon, in came her godmother,
who, having touched Cinderella's clothes with her wand,
made them more magnificent than those she had worn before.
And now her two sisters found her to be that beautiful lady they
had seen at the ball. They threw themselves at her feet to beg
pardon for all their ill treatment of her. Cinderella took them up,
and, as she embraced them, said that she forgave them with all her
heart, and begged them to love her always.
She was conducted to the young Prince, dressed as she was. He
thought her more charming than ever, and, a few days after, married
her. Cinderella, who was as good as she was beautiful, gave her two
sisters a home in the palace, and that very same day married them to
two great lords of the Court.
THE HISTORY OF DICK WHITTINGTON AND HIS CAT
Old Chapbook
In the reign of the famous King Edward the Third, there was
a little boy called Dick Whittington, whose father and mother died
when he was very young, so that he remembered nothing at all about
them, and was left a dirty little fellow running about a country village.
As poor Dick was not old enough to work, he was in a sorry plight. He
got but little for his dinner, and sometimes nothing at all for his
breakfast, for the people who lived in the village were very poor
themselves, and could spare him little more than the parings of potatoes,
and now and then a hard crust.
For all this, Dick Whittington was a very sharp boy, and was always
listening to what every one talked about.
On Sundays he never failed to get near the farmers, as they sat talking
on the tombstones in the churchyard before the parson was come; and
once a week you might be sure to see little Dick leaning against the
signpost of the village alehouse, where people stopped to drink as they
came from the next market town; and whenever the barber's shop door was
open Dick listened to all the news he told his customers.
In this manner Dick heard of the great city called London; how
the people who lived there were all fine gentlemen and ladies;
that there were singing and music in it all day long; and that the
streets were paved all over with gold.
One day a wagoner, with a large wagon and eight horses, all with
bells at their heads, drove through the village while Dick was
lounging near his favorite signpost. The thought immediately
struck him that it must be going to the fine town of London; and
taking courage he asked the wagoner to let him walk with him by
the side of the wagon. The man, hearing from poor Dick that he
had no parents, and seeing by his ragged condition that he could
not be worse off, told him he might go if he would; so they set off
together.
Dick got safe to London; and so eager was he to see the fine streets
paved all over with gold that he ran as fast as his legs would carry
him through several streets, expecting every moment to come to
those that were all paved with gold, for Dick had three times seen
a guinea in his own village, and observed what a great deal of money
it brought in change; so he imagined he had only to take up some
little bits of the pavement to have as much money as he desired.
Poor Dick ran till he was tired, and at last, finding it grow dark,
and that whichever way he turned he saw nothing but dirt instead
of gold, he sat down in a dark corner and cried himself asleep.
Little Dick remained all night in the streets; and next morning,
finding himself very hungry, he got up and walked about, asking
those he met to give him a halfpenny to keep him from starving; but
nobody stayed to answer him, and only two or three gave him anything,
so that the poor boy was soon in the most miserable condition.
Being almost starved to death, he laid himself down at the door of
one Mr. Fitzwarren, a great, rich merchant. Here he was soon
perceived by the cook-maid, who was an ill-tempered creature, and
happened just then to be very busy dressing dinner for her master
and mistress; so, seeing poor Dick, she called out, "What business
have you there, you lazy rogue? There is nothing else but beggars;
if you do not take yourself away, we will see how you will
like a sousing of some dishwater I have here that is hot enough to
make you caper."
Just at this time Mr. Fitzwarren himself came home from the city
to dinner, and, seeing a dirty, ragged boy lying at the door, said to
him, "Why do you lie there, my lad? You seem old enough to
work. I fear you must be somewhat idle." '"No, indeed, sir," says
Whittington, "that is not true, for I would work with all my heart,
but I know nobody, and I believe I am very sick for want of food."
"Poor fellow!" answered Mr. Fitzwarren.
Dick now tried to rise, but was obliged to lie down again, being
too weak to stand, for he had not eaten anything for three days,
and was no longer able to run about and beg a halfpenny of people
in the street; so the kind merchant ordered that he should be taken
into his house, and have a good dinner immediately, and that
he should be kept to do what dirty work he was able for the
cook.
Little Dick would have lived very happily in this worthy family
had it not been for the crabbed cook, who was finding fault and
scolding him from morning till night, and was withal so fond of
roasting and basting that, when the spit was out of her hands, she
would be at basting poor Dick's head and shoulders with a broom,
or anything else that happened to fall in her way, till at last her
ill usage of him was told to Miss Alice, Mr. Fitzwarren's daughter,
who asked the ill-tempered creature if she was not ashamed to use
a little friendless boy so cruelly; and added she would certainly be
turned away if she did not treat him with more kindness.
But though the cook was so ill-tempered, Mr. Fitzwarren's footman
was quite the contrary. He had lived in the family many years,
was rather elderly, and had once a little boy of his own, who died
when about the age of Whittington, so that he could not but feel
compassion for the poor boy.
As the footman was very fond of reading, he used generally in
the evening to entertain his fellow servants, when they had done
their work, with some amusing book. The pleasure our little hero
took in hearing him made him very much desire to learn to read,
too; so the next time the good-natured footman gave him a halfpenny,
he bought a hornbook with it; and, with a little of his help,
Dick soon learned his letters, and afterwards to read.
About this time Miss Alice was going out one morning for a walk,
and the footman happening to be out of the way, little Dick, who
had received from Mr. Fitzwarren a neat suit of clothes to go to
church on Sundays, was ordered to put them on, and walk behind
her. As they walked along, Miss Alice, seeing a poor woman with
one child in her arms and another at her back, pulled out her
purse, and gave her some money; and, as she was putting it again
into her pocket, she dropped it on the ground, and walked on.
Luckily Dick, who was behind, saw what she had done, picked it up,
and immediately presented it to her.
Besides the ill-humor of the cook, which now, however, was somewhat
mended, Whittington had another hardship to get over. This
was, that his bed, which was made of flock, was placed in a garret,
where there were so many holes in the floor and walls that he never
went to bed without being awakened in his sleep by great numbers of
rats and mice, which generally ran over his face, and made such a
noise that he sometimes thought the walls were tumbling down about
him.
One day a gentleman who paid a visit to Mr. Fitzwarren happened
to have dirtied his shoes, and begged they might be cleaned.
Dick took great pains to make them shine, and the gentleman gave
him a penny. This he resolved to lay out in buying a cat, if possible;
and the next day, seeing a little girl with a cat under her
arm, he went up to her, and asked if she would let him have it for
a penny, to which the girl replied she would with all her heart,
for her mother had more cats than she could maintain, adding
that the one she had was an excellent mouser.
This cat Whittington hid in the garret, always taking care to carry
her a part of his dinner; and in a short time he had no further
disturbance from the rats and mice, but slept as sound as a top.
Soon after this the merchant, who had a ship ready to sail, richly
laden, and thinking it but just that all his servants should have some
chance for good luck as well as himself, called them into the parlor,
and asked them what commodity they chose to send.
All mentioned something they were willing to venture, but poor
Whittington, who, having no money nor goods, could send nothing
at all, for which reason he did not come in with the rest; but Miss
Alice, guessing what was the matter, ordered him to be called, and
offered to lay down some money for him from her own purse; but
this, the merchant observed, would not do, for it must be something
of his own.
Upon this, poor Dick said he had nothing but a cat, which he
bought for a penny that was given him.
"Fetch thy cat, boy," says Mr. Fitzwarren, "and let her go."
Whittington brought poor puss, and delivered her to the captain
with tears in his eyes, for he said, "He should now again be kept
awake all night by the rats and mice."
All the company laughed at the oddity of Whittington's adventure; and
Miss Alice, who felt the greatest pity for the poor boy, gave him some
halfpence to buy another cat.
This, and several other marks of kindness shown him by Miss
Alice, made the ill-tempered cook so jealous of the favors the poor
boy received that she began to use him more cruelly than ever, and
constantly made game of him for sending his cat to sea, asking him
if he thought it would sell for as much money as would buy a
halter.
At last the unhappy little fellow, being unable to bear this
treatment any longer, determined to run away from his place. He
accordingly packed up the few things that belonged to him, and set
out very early in the morning on Allhallow Day, which is the
first of November. He traveled as far as Holloway, and there sat
down on a stone, which to this day is called Whittington's Stone,
and began to consider what course he should take.
While he was thus thinking what he could do, Bow Bells, of which
there were then only six, began to ring, and it seemed to him that
their sounds addressed him in this manner--
"Turn again, Whitlington,
Lord mayor of London."
"Lord mayor of London!" says he to himself. "Why, to be
sure, I would bear anything to be lord mayor of London, and ride in
a fine coach! Well, I will go back, and think nothing of all the
cuffing and scolding of old Cicely, if I am at last to be lord mayor
of London."
So back went Dick, and got into the house, and set about his
business before Cicely came downstairs.
The ship, with the cat on board, was long beaten about at sea,
and was at last driven by contrary winds on a part of the coast of
Barbary, inhabited by Moors that were unknown to the English.
The natives in this country came in great numbers, out of curiosity,
to see the people on board, who were all of so different a color from
themselves, and treated them with great civility, and, as they became
better acquainted, showed marks of eagerness to purchase the fine
things with which the ship was laden.
The captain, seeing this, sent patterns of the choicest articles he
had to the king of the country, who was so much pleased with
them that he sent for the captain and his chief mate to the palace.
Here they were placed, as is the custom of the country, on rich
carpets flowered with gold and silver; and, the king and queen being
seated at the upper end of the room, dinner was brought in, which
consisted of the greatest rarities. No sooner, however, were all the
dishes set before the company than an amazing number of rats
and mice rushed in, and helped themselves plentifully from every
dish, scattering pieces of flesh and gravy all about the room.
The captain, extremely astonished, asked if these vermin were not
very offensive.
"Oh, yes," said they, "very offensive; and the king would give
half his treasure to be free of them, for they not only destroy his
dinner, but they disturb him even in his chamber, so that he is
obliged to be watched while he sleeps."
The captain, who was ready to jump for joy, remembering poor
Whittington's hard case, and the cat he had entrusted to his care, told
him he had a creature on board his ship that would kill them all.
The king was still more overjoyed than the captain. "Bring this
creature to me," says he; "and if she can really perform what you
say I will load your ship with wedges of gold in exchange for her."
Away flew the captain, while another dinner was providing, to
the ship, and, taking puss under his arm, returned to the palace in
time to see the table covered with rats and mice, and the second
dinner in a fair way to meet with the same fate as the first.
The cat, at sight of them, did not wait for bidding, but sprang
from the captain's arms, and in a few moments laid the greatest part
of the rats and mice dead at her feet, while the rest, in the greatest
fright imaginable, scampered away to their holes.
The king, having seen and considered of the wonderful exploits
of Mrs. Puss, and being informed she would soon have young ones,
which might in time destroy all the rats and mice in the country,
bargained with the captain for his whole ship's cargo, and afterwards
agreed to give a prodigious quantity of wedges of gold, of still
greater value, for the cat, with which, after taking leave of their
Majesties, and other great personages belonging to the court, he,
with all his ship's company, set sail, with a fair wind, and, after a
happy voyage, arrived safely in the port of London.
One morning Mr. Fitzwarren had just entered his counting-house,
and was going to seat himself at the desk, when who should arrive
but the captain and mate of the merchant ship, the _Unicorn,_ just
arrived from the coast of Barbary, and followed by several men,
bringing with them a prodigious quantity of wedges of gold that had
been paid by the king of Barbary in exchange for the merchandise,
and also in exchange for Mrs. Puss. Mr. Fitzwarren, the instant he
heard the news, ordered Whittington to be called, and, having desired
him to be seated, said, "Mr. Whittington, most heartily do I rejoice
in the news these gentlemen have brought you, for the captain has
sold your cat to the king of Barbary, and brought you in return
more riches than I possess in the whole world; and may you long
enjoy them!"
Mr. Fitzwarren then desired the men to open the immense treasure
they had brought, and added that Mr. Whittington had now nothing
to do but to put it in some place of safety.
Poor Dick could scarce contain himself for joy. He begged his
master to take what part of it he pleased, since to his kindness he
was indebted for the whole. "No, no, this wealth is all your own,
and justly so," answered Mr. Fitzwarren; "and I have no doubt you
will use it generously."
Whittington, however, was too kind-hearted to keep all himself;
and accordingly made a handsome present to the captain, the mate,
and every one of the ship's company, and afterwards to his excellent
friend the footman, and the rest of Mr. Fitzwarren's servants, not
even excepting crabbed old Cicely.
After this, Mr. Fitzwarren advised him to send for tradespeople,
and get himself dressed as became a gentleman, and made him the
offer of his house to live in till he could provide himself with a
better.
When Mr. Whittington's face was washed, his hair curled, his
hat cocked, and he was dressed in a fashionable suit of clothes, he
appeared as handsome and genteel as any young man who visited
at Mr. Fitzwarren's; so that Miss Alice, who had formerly thought
of him with compassion, now considered him as fit to be her lover;
and the more so, no doubt, because Mr. Whittington was constantly
thinking what he could do to oblige her, and making her the prettiest
presents imaginable.
Mr. Fitzwarren, perceiving their affection for each other, proposed
to unite them in marriage, to which, without difficulty, they each
consented; and accordingly a day for the wedding was soon fixed,
and they were attended to church by the lord mayor, the court of
aldermen, the sheriffs, and a great number of the wealthiest merchants
in London; and the ceremony was succeeded by a most elegant
entertainment and splendid ball.
History tells us that the said Mr. Whittington and his lady lived
in great splendor, and were very happy; that they had several children;
that he was sheriff of London in the year 1340, and several
times afterwards lord mayor; that in the last year of his mayoralty
he entertained King Henry the Fifth on his return from the battle
of Agincourt. And sometime afterwards, going with an address
from the city on one of his Majesty's victories, he received the honor
of knighthood.
Sir Richard Whittington constantly fed great numbers of the poor.
He built a church and college to it, with a yearly allowance to poor
scholars, and near it erected a hospital.
The effigy of Sir Richard Whittington was to be seen, with his cat
in his arms, carved in stone, over the archway of the late prison of
Newgate that went across Newgate Street.
THE UGLY DUCKLING
Hans Christian Andersen
It was glorious out in the country. It was summer, and the cornfields
were yellow, and the oats were green; the hay had been put
up in stacks in the green meadows, and the stork went about on his
long red legs, and chattered Egyptian, for this was the language he
had learned from his good mother. All around the fields and
meadows were great forests, and in the midst of these forests lay
deep lakes. Yes, it was really glorious out in the country. In the
midst of the sunshine there lay an old farm, surrounded by deep
canals, and from the wall down to the water grew great burdocks,
so high that the children could stand upright under the loftiest of
them. It was just as wild there as in the deepest wood. Here sat
a Duck upon her nest, for she had to hatch her young ones; but she
was almost tired out before the little ones came; and then she so
seldom had visitors. The other Ducks liked better to swim about in
the canals than to run up to sit down under a burdock and cackle
with her.
At last one eggshell after another burst open. "Piep! piep!" it
cried, and in all the eggs there were little creatures that stuck out
their heads.
"Rap! rap!" they said; and they all came rapping out as fast as
they could, looking all round them under the green leaves; and the
mother let them look as much as they chose, for green is good for
the eyes. "How wide the world is!" said the young ones, for they
certainly had much more room now than when they were in the eggs.
"Do you think this is all the world!" asked the mother. "That
extends far across the other side of the garden, quite into the parson's
field, but I have never been there yet. I hope you are all together,"
she continued, and stood up." No, I have not all. The largest egg
still lies there. How long is that to last? I am really tired of it."
And she sat down again.
"Well, how goes it?" asked an old Duck who had come to pay
her a visit.
"It lasts a long time with that one egg," said the Duck who sat
there. "It will not burst. Now, only look at the others; are they
not the prettiest ducks one could possibly see? They are all like
their father; the bad fellow never comes to see me."
"Let me see the egg which will not burst," said the old visitor.
"Believe me, it is a turkey's egg. I was once cheated in that way,
and had much anxiety and trouble with the young ones, for they
are afraid of the water. I could not get them to venture in. I
quacked and clucked, but it was of no use. Let me see the egg.
Yes, that's a turkey's egg. Let it lie there, and you teach the other
children to swim."
"I think I will sit on it a little longer," said the Duck. "I've sat
so long now that I can sit a few days more."
"Just as you please," said the old Duck; and she went away.
At last the great egg burst. "Piep! piep!" said the little one,
and crept forth. It was very large and very ugly. The Duck
looked at it.
"It's a very large duckling," said she; "none of the others look
like that; can it really be a turkey chick? Now we shall soon find
out. It must go into the water, even if I have to thrust it in myself."
The next day the weather was splendidly bright, and the sun
shone on all the green trees. The Mother Duck went down to the
water with all her little ones. Splash! she jumped into the water.
"Quack! quack!" she said, and then one duckling after another
plunged in. The water closed over their heads, but they came up
in an instant and swam capitally; their legs went of themselves, and
there they were, all in the water. The ugly gray Duckling swam
with them.
"No, it's not a turkey," said she; "look how well it can use its
legs, and how upright it holds itself. It is my own child! On the
whole it's quite pretty, if one looks at it rightly. Quack! quack!
come with me, and I'll lead you out into the great world, and
present you in the poultry yard; but keep close to me, so that no
one may tread on you; and take care of the cats!"
And so they came into the poultry yard. There was a terrible
riot going on there, for two families were quarreling about an eel's
head, and the cat got it after all.
"See, that's how it goes in the world!" said the Mother Duck;
and she whetted her beak, for she, too, wanted the eel's head. "Only
use your legs," she said. "See that you bustle about, and bow your
heads before the old Duck yonder. She's the grandest of all here;
she's of Spanish blood--that's why she's so fat; and do you see,
she has a red rag round her leg; that's something particularly
fine, and the greatest distinction a duck can enjoy; it signifies that
one does not want to lose her, and that she's to be recognized by
man and beast. Shake yourselves--don't turn in your toes: a well-brought-up
Duck turns its toes quite out, just like father and mother,
so! Now bend your necks and say 'Rap!'"
And they did so; but the other Ducks round about looked at them
and said quite boldly:
"Look there! now we're to have these hanging on, as if there were
not enough of us already! And--fie--! how that Duckling yonder
looks; we won't stand that!" And one Duck flew up immediately,
and bit it in the neck.
"Let it alone," said the mother; "it does no harm to any one."
"Yes, but it's too large and peculiar," said the Duck who had
bitten it; "and therefore it must be buffeted."
"Those are pretty children that the mother has there," said the
old Duck with the rag round her leg. "They're all pretty but that
one; that was a failure. I wish she could alter it."
"That cannot be done, my Lady," replied the Mother Duck. "It
is not pretty, but it has a really good disposition, and swims as well
as any other; I may even say it swims better. I think it will grow
up pretty, and become smaller in time; it has lain too long in the
egg, and therefore is not properly shaped." And then she pinched
it in the neck and smoothed its feathers. "Moreover, it is a drake,"
she said, "and therefore it is not of so much consequence. I think
he will be very strong; he makes his way already."
"The other ducklings are graceful enough," said the old Duck.
"Make yourself at home; and if you find an eel's head, you may
bring it me."
And now they were at home. But the poor Duckling which had
crept last out of the egg, and looked so ugly, was bitten and pushed
and jeered, as much by the Ducks as by the chickens.
"It is too big!" they all said. And the turkey-cock, who had
been born with spurs and therefore thought himself an emperor,
blew himself up like a ship in full sail and bore straight down upon
it; then he gobbled and grew quite red in the face. The poor
Duckling did not know where it should stand or walk; it was quite
melancholy, because it looked ugly and was scoffed at by the whole
yard.
So it went on the first day, and afterward it became worse and
worse. The poor Duckling was hunted about by every one; even
its brothers and sisters were quite angry with it, and said, "If the
cat would only catch you, you ugly creature!" And the mother
said, "If you were only far away!" And the Ducks bit it and the
chickens beat it, and the girl who had to feed the poultry kicked
at it with her foot.
Then it ran and flew over the fence, and the little birds in the
bushes flew up in fear.
"That is because I am so ugly!" thought the Duckling; and it
shut its eyes, but flew no further; thus it came out into the great
moor, where the Wild Ducks lived. Here it lay the whole night
long; and it was weary and downcast.
Toward morning the Wild Ducks flew up and looked at their new
companion.
"What sort of a one are you?" they asked; and the Duckling
turned in every direction, and bowed as well as it could. "You are
remarkably ugly!" said the Wild Ducks. "But that is very indifferent
to us, so long as you do not marry into our family."
Poor thing! It certainly did not think of marrying, and only
hoped to obtain leave to lie among the reeds and drink some of the
swamp water.
Thus it lay two whole days; then came thither two Wild Geese,
or, properly speaking, two wild ganders. It was not long since each
had crept out of an egg, and that's why they were so saucy.
"Listen, comrade," said one of them. "You're so ugly that I
like you. Will you go with us and become a bird of passage?
Near here, in another moor, there are a few sweet lovely wild geese,
all unmarried and all able to say 'Rap!' You've a chance of
making your fortune, ugly as you are!"
"Piff! paff!" resounded through the air; and the two ganders
fell down dead in the swamp, and the water became blood-red.
"Piff! paff!" it sounded again, and the whole flock of wild geese
rose up from the reeds. And then there was another report. A
great hunt was going on. The hunters were lying in wait all round
the moor and some were even sitting up in the branches of the
trees, which spread far over the reeds. The blue smoke rose up like
clouds among the dark trees, and was wafted far away across the
water; and the hunting dogs came--splash, splash!--into the
swamp, and the rushes and reeds bent down on every side. That
was a fright for the poor Duckling! It turned its head and put it
under its wing; but at that moment a frightful great dog stood close
by the Duckling. His tongue hung far out of his mouth and his
eyes gleamed horrible and ugly; he thrust out his nose close against
the Duckling, showed his sharp teeth, and--splash, splash!--on
he went without seizing it.
"Oh, heaven be thanked!" sighed the Duckling. "I am so ugly
that even the dog does not like to bite me!"
And so it lay quiet, while the shots rattled through the reeds and
gun after gun was fired. At last, late in the day, silence; but the
poor Duckling did not dare to rise up; it waited several hours before
it looked round, and then hastened away out of the moor as fast as it
could. It ran on over field and meadow; there was such a storm
raging that it was difficult to get from one place to another.
Toward evening the Duck came to a little miserable peasant's hut.
This hut was so dilapidated that it did not know on which side it
should fall; and that's why it remained standing. The storm whistled
round the Duckling in such a way that the poor creature was
obliged to sit down, to stand against it; and the tempest grew worse
and worse. Then the Duckling noticed that one of the hinges of the
door had given way, and the door hung so slanting that the Duckling
could slip through the crack into the room; and it did so.
Here lived an old woman, with her Tom Cat and her Hen. And the
Tom Cat, whom she called Sonnie, could arch his back and purr, he
could even give out sparks; but for that one had to stroke his fur
the wrong way. The Hen had quite little legs, and therefore she
was called Chickabiddy-short-shanks; she laid good eggs, and the
woman loved her as her own child.
In the morning the strange Duckling was at once noticed, and
the Tom Cat began to purr and the Hen to cluck.
"What's this?" said the woman, and looked all round; but she
could not see well, and therefore she thought the Duckling was a
fat duck that had strayed. "This is a rare prize," she said. "Now
I shall have duck's eggs. I hope it is not a drake. We must try
that."
And so the Duckling was admitted on trial for three weeks; but
no eggs came. And the Tom Cat was master of the house, and the
Hen was the lady, and they always said "We and the world!" for
they thought they were half the world, and by far the better half.
The Duckling thought one might have a different opinion, but the
Hen would not allow it.
"Can you lay eggs?" she asked.
"No."
"Then you'll have the goodness to hold your tongue."
And the Tom Cat said, "Can you curve your back, and purr, and
give out sparks?
"No."
"Then you cannot have any opinion of your own when sensible
people are speaking."
And the Duckling sat in a corner and was melancholy; then the
fresh air and the sunshine streamed in; and it was seized with such
a strange longing to swim on the water that it could not help telling
the Hen of it.
"What are you thinking of?" cried the Hen. "You have nothing
to do, that's why you have these fancies. Purr or lay eggs, and
they will pass over."
"But it is so charming to swim on the water!" said the Duckling,
"so refreshing to let it close above one's head, and to dive down
to the bottom."
"Yes, that must be a mighty pleasure truly," quoth the Hen. "I
fancy you must have gone crazy. Ask the Cat about it--he's the
cleverest animal I know--ask him if he likes to swim on the water,
or to dive down: I won't speak about myself. Ask our mistress,
the old woman; no one in the world's cleverer than she. Do you
think she has any desire to swim, and to let the water close above
her head?"
"You don't understand me," said the Duckling.
"We don't understand you? Then pray who is to understand
you? You surely don't pretend to be cleverer than the Tom Cat and
the old woman--I won't say anything of myself. Don't be conceited,
child, and be grateful for all the kindness you have received.
Did you not get into a warm room, and have you not fallen into
company from which you may learn something? But you are a
chatterer, and it is not pleasant to associate with you. You may
believe me, I speak for your good. I tell you disagreeable things,
and by that one may always know one's friends. Only take care
that you learn to lay eggs, or to purr and give out sparks!"
"I think I will go out into the wide world," said the Duckling.
"Yes, do go," replied the Hen.
And the Duckling went away. It swam on the water, and dived,
but it was slighted by every creature because of its ugliness.
Now came the autumn. The leaves in the forest turned yellow
and brown; the wind caught them so that they danced about, and up
in the air it was very cold. The clouds hung low, heavy with hail
and snowflakes, and on the fence stood the raven, crying, "Croak!
croak!" for mere cold; yes, it was enough to make one feel cold
to think of this. The poor little Duckling certainly had not a good
time. One evening--the sun was just setting in his beauty--there
came a whole flock of great handsome birds out of the bushes; they
were dazzlingly white, with long, flexible necks; they were swans.
They uttered a very peculiar cry, spread forth their glorious great
wings, and flew away from that cold region to warmer lands, to fair
open lakes. They mounted so high, so high! and the ugly little
Duckling felt quite strangely as it watched them. It turned round
and round in the water like a wheel, stretched out its neck toward
them, and uttered such a strange loud cry as frightened itself. Oh!
it could not forget those beautiful, happy birds; and as soon as it
could see them no longer, it dived down to the very bottom, and when
it came up again, it was quite beside itself. It knew not the name of
those birds, and knew not whither they were flying; but it loved them
more than it had ever loved any one. It was not at all envious of
them. How could it think of wishing to possess such loveliness as
they had? It would have been glad if only the ducks would have
endured its company--the poor ugly creature!
And the winter grew cold, very cold! The Duckling was forced
to swim about in the water, to prevent the surface from freezing
entirely; but every night the hole in which it swam about became
smaller and smaller. It froze so hard that the icy covering crackled
again; and the Duckling was obliged to use its legs continually to
prevent the hole from freezing up. At last it became exhausted,
and lay quite still, and thus froze fast into the ice.
Early in the morning a peasant came by, and when he saw what
had happened, he took his wooden shoe, broke the ice crust to pieces,
and carried the Duckling home to his wife. Then it came to itself
again. The children wanted to play with it; but the Duckling
thought they would do it an injury, and in its terror fluttered up
into the milk pan, so that the milk spurted down into the room. The
woman clasped her hands, at which the Duckling flew down into the
butter tub, and then into the meal barrel and out again. How it
looked then! The woman screamed, and struck at it with the fire
tongs; the children tumbled over one another, in their efforts to
catch the Duckling; and they laughed and screamed finely! Happily
the door stood open, and the poor creature was able to slip out
between the shrubs into the newly fallen snow; and there it lay quite
exhausted.
But it would be too melancholy if I were to tell all the misery
and care which the Duckling had to endure in the hard winter. It
lay out on the moor among the reeds, when the sun began to shine
again and the larks to sing; it was a beautiful spring.
Then all at once the Duckling could flap its wings; they beat the
air more strongly than before, and bore it strongly away; and before
it well knew how all this had happened, it found itself in a great
garden, where the elder trees smelt sweet, and bent their long green
branches down to the canal that wound through the region. Oh, here
it was so beautiful, such a gladness of spring! and from the thicket
came three glorious white swans; they rustled their wings, and swam
lightly on the water. The Duckling knew the splendid creatures,
and felt oppressed by a peculiar sadness.
"I will fly away to them, to the royal birds! and they will kill
me, because I, that am so ugly, dare to approach them. But it is of
no consequence! Better to be killed by _them_ than to be pursued
by ducks, and beaten by fowls, and pushed about by the girl who takes
care of the poultry yard, and to suffer hunger in winter!" And it
flew out into the water, and swam toward the beautiful swans: these
looked at it, and came sailing down upon it with outspread wings.
"Kill me!" said the poor creature, and bent its head down upon
the water, expecting nothing but death. But what was this that it
saw in the clear water? It beheld its own image--and, lo! it was
no longer a clumsy dark-gray bird, ugly and hateful to look at, but
--a swan.
It matters nothing if one was born in a duck yard, if one has only
lain in a swan's egg.
It felt quite glad at all the need and misfortune it had suffered,
now it realized its happiness in all the splendor that surrounded it.
And the great swans swam round it, and stroked it with their beaks.
Into the garden came little children, who threw bread and corn
into the water; the youngest cried, "There is a new one!" and the
other children shouted joyously, "Yes, a new one has arrived!"
And they clapped their hands and danced about, and ran to their
father and mother; and bread and cake were thrown into the water;
and they all said, "The new one is the most beautiful of all! so
young and handsome!" and the old swans bowed their heads before
him.
Then he felt quite ashamed, and hid his head under his wing, for
he did not know what to do; he was so happy, and yet not at all
proud. He thought how he had been persecuted and despised; and
now he heard them saying that he was the most beautiful of all the
birds. Even the elder tree bent its branches straight down into the
water before him, and the sun shone warm and mild. Then his
wings rustled, he lifted his slender neck, and cried rejoicingly from
the depths of his heart:
"I never dreamed of so much happiness when I was still the
Ugly Duckling!"
THE FLAX
Hans Christian Andersen
The Flax was in full bloom. Its pretty blue blossoms were as soft
as the wings of a moth, and still more delicate. And the sun shone
on the flax field, and the rain watered it; and that was as good for
the flax flowers as it is for little children to be washed and kissed
by their mother,--they look so much fresher and prettier afterwards.
Thus it was with the Flax flowers.
"People say I am so fine and flourishing," observed the Flax;
"and that I am growing so charmingly tall, a splendid piece of
linen will be got from me. Oh, how happy I am! how can any one
be happier? Everything around me is so pleasant, and I shall be
of use for something or other. How the sun cheers one up, and how
fresh and sweet the rain tastes! I am incomparably happy; I am
the happiest vegetable in the world!"
"Ah, ah, ah!" jeered the Stakes in the hedge; "you don't know
the world, not you, but we know it, there are knots in us!" and then
they cracked so dolefully:
"Snip, snap, snurre,
Bassilurre,
And so the song is en-ded-ded-ded."
"No, it is not ended," replied the Flax; "the sun shines every
morning, the rain does me so much good, I can see myself grow;
I can feel that I am in blossom--who so happy as I?"
However, one day people came, took hold of the Flax, and pulled
it up, root and all; that was exceedingly uncomfortable; and then it
was thrown into water, as though intended to be drowned, and, after
that, put before the fire, as though to be roasted. That was most
cruel!
"One cannot always have what one wishes!" sighed the Flax;
"it is well to suffer sometimes, it gives one experience."
But matters seemed to get worse and worse. The Flax was bruised
and broken, hacked and hackled, and at last put on the wheel--
snurre rur! snurre rur!--it was not possible to keep one's thoughts
collected in such a situation as this.
"I have been exceedingly fortunate," thought the Flax, amid all
these tortures. "One ought to be thankful for the happiness one
has enjoyed in times past. Thankful, thankful, oh, yes!" and still
the Flax said the same when taken to the loom. And here it was
made into a large, handsome piece of linen; all the Flax of that
one field was made into a single piece.
"Well, but this is charming! Never should I have expected it.
What unexampled good fortune I have carried through the world
with me! What arrant nonsense the Stakes in the hedge used to
talk with their
"'Snip, snap, snurre,
Bassilurre.'
The song is not ended at all! Life is but just beginning. It is a
very pleasant thing, too, is life; to be sure I have suffered, but that is
past now, and I have become something through suffering. I am
so strong, and yet so soft! so white and so long! this is far better
than being a vegetable; even during blossom-time nobody attends
to one, and one only gets water when it is raining. Now, I am well
taken care of--the girl turns me over every morning, and I have a
shower bath from the water tub every evening; nay, the parson's wife
herself came and looked at me, and said I was the finest piece of
linen in the parish. No one can possibly be happier than I am!"
The Linen was taken into the house, and cut up with scissors. Oh,
how it was cut and clipped, how it was pierced and stuck through
with needles! that was certainly no pleasure at all. It was at last
made up into twelve articles of attire, such articles as are not often
mentioned, but which people can hardly do without; there were just
twelve of them.
"So this, then, was my destiny. Well, it is very delightful; now
I shall be of use in the world, and there is really no pleasure like
that of being useful. We are now twelve pieces, but we are still one
and the same--we are a dozen! Certainly, this is being extremely
fortunate!"
Years passed away,--at last the Linen could endure no longer.
"All things must pass away some time or other," remarked each
piece. "I should like very much to last a little while longer, but
one ought not to wish for impossibilities." And so the Linen was
rent into shreds and remnants numberless; they believed all was over
with them, for they were hacked, and mashed, and boiled, and they
knew not what else--and thus they became beautiful, fine, white
paper!
"Now, upon my word, this is a surprise! And a most delightful
surprise too!" declared the Paper. "Why, now I am finer than
ever, and I shall be written upon! I wonder what will be written
upon me. Was there ever such famous good fortune as mine!"
And the Paper was written upon; the most charming stories in the
world were written on it, and they were read aloud! and people declared
that these stories were very beautiful and very instructive;
that to read them would make mankind both wiser and better.
Truly, a great blessing was given to the world in the words written
upon that same Paper.
"Certainly, this is more than I could ever have dreamt of, when
I was a wee little blue flower of the field! How could I then have
looked forward to becoming a messenger destined to bring knowledge
and pleasure among men? I can hardly understand it even
now. Yet, so it is, actually. And, for my own part, I have never
done anything, beyond the little that in me lay, to strive to exist,
and yet I am carried on from one state of honor and happiness to
another; and every time that I think within myself, 'Now, surely, the
song is en-ded-ded-ded,' I am converted into something new, something
far higher and better. Now, I suppose I shall be sent on my
travels, shall be sent round the wide world, so that all men may read
me. I should think that would be the wisest plan. Formerly I had
blue blossoms, now for every single blossom I have some beautiful
thought, or pleasant fancy--who so happy as I?"
But the Paper was not sent on its travels, it went to the printer's
instead, and there all that was written upon it was printed in a
book; nay, in many hundred books: and in this way an infinitely
greater number of people received pleasure and profit therefrom
than if the written Paper itself had been sent round the world, and
perhaps got torn and worn to pieces before it had gone halfway.
"Yes, to be sure, this is much more sensible," thought the Paper.
"It had never occurred to me, though. I am to stay at home and
be held in as great honor as if I were an old grandfather. The
book was written on me first, the ink flowed in upon me from the pen
and formed the words. I shall stay at home, while the books go
about the world, to and fro--that is much better. How glad I am!
how fortunate I am!"
So the Paper was rolled up and laid on one side. "It is good to
repose after labor," said the Paper. "It is quite right to collect
oneself, and quietly think over all that dwelleth within one. Now,
first, do I rightly know myself. And to know oneself, I have heard,
is the best knowledge, the truest progress. And come what will,
this I am sure of, all will end in progress--always is there
progress!"
One day the roll of Paper was thrown upon the stove to be burnt
--it must not be sold to the grocer to wrap round pounds of butter
and sugar. And all the children in the house flocked round; they
wanted to see the blaze, they wanted to count the multitude of tiny
red sparks which seem to dart to and fro among the ashes, dying out,
one after another, so quickly--they call them "the children going
out of school," and the last spark of all is the schoolmaster; they
often fancy he is gone out, but another and another spark flies up
unexpectedly, and the schoolmaster always tarries a little behind the
rest.
And now all the Paper lay heaped up on the stove. "Ugh!" it
cried, and all at once it burst into a flame. So high did it rise into
the air, never had the Flax been able to rear its tiny blue blossoms
so high, and it shone as never the white Linen had shone; all the letters
written on it became fiery red in an instant, and all the words
and thoughts of the writer were surrounded with a glory.
"Now, then, I go straight up into the sun!" said something within
the flames. It was as though a thousand voices at once had spoken
thus; and the Flame burst through the chimney, and rose high above
it; and brighter than the Flame, yet invisible to mortal eyes, hovered
little tiny beings, as many as there had been blossoms on the
Flax. They were lighter and of more subtle essence than even the
Flame that bore them; and when that Flame had quite died away,
and nothing remained of the Paper but the black ashes, they once
again danced over them, and wherever their feet touched the ashes,
their footprints, the fiery red sparks, were seen. Thus "the children
went out of school, and the schoolmaster came last"; it was a pleasure
to see the pretty sight, and the children of the house stood looking
at the black ashes and singing---
"Snip, snap, snurre,
Bassilurre,
And now the song is en-ded-ded-ded."
But the tiny invisible beings replied every one, "The song is never
ended; that is the best of it! We know that, and therefore none are
so happy as we are!"
However, the children could neither hear nor understand the reply;
nor would it be well that they should, for children must not
know everything.
BLUE BEARD
Charles Perrault
Once upon a time there was a man who had fine houses, both in
town and country, a deal of silver and gold plate, carved furniture,
and coaches gilded all over. But unhappily this man had a blue
beard, which made him so ugly and so terrible that all the women
and girls ran away from him.
One of his neighbors, a lady of quality, had two daughters who
were perfect beauties. He asked for one of them in marriage, leaving
to her the choice of which she would bestow on him. They
would neither of them have him, and they sent him backward and
forward from one to the other, neither being able to make up her
mind to marry a man who had a blue beard. Another thing which
made them averse to him was that he had already married several
wives, and nobody knew what had become of them.
Blue Beard, to become better acquainted, took them, with their
mother and three or four of their best friends, with some young
people of the neighborhood, to one of his country seats, where they
stayed a whole week.
There was nothing going on but pleasure parties, hunting, fishing,
dancing, mirth, and feasting. Nobody went to bed, but all passed
the night in playing pranks on each other. In short, everything
succeeded so well that the youngest daughter began to think that the
beard of the master of the house was not so very blue, and that he
was a very civil gentleman. So as soon as they returned home, the
marriage was concluded.
About a month afterward Blue Beard told his wife that he was
obliged to take a country journey for six weeks at least, upon business
of great importance. He desired her to amuse herself well in
his absence, to send for her friends, to take them into the country,
if she pleased, and to live well wherever she was.
"Here," said he, "are the keys of the two great warehouses
wherein I have my best furniture: these are of the room where I
keep my silver and gold plate, which is not in everyday use; these
open my safes, which hold my money, both gold and silver; these
my caskets of jewels; and this is the master-key to all my apartments.
But as for this little key, it is the key of the closet at the end
of the great gallery on the ground floor. Open them all; go everywhere;
but as for that little closet, I forbid you to enter it, and I
promise you surely that, if you open it, there's nothing that you may
not expect from my anger."
She promised to obey exactly all his orders; and he, after having
embraced her, got into his coach and proceeded on his journey.
Her neighbors and good friends did not stay to be sent for by the
new-married lady, so great was their impatience to see all the riches
of her house, not daring to come while her husband was there, because
of his blue beard, which frightened them. They at once ran
through all the rooms, closets, and wardrobes, which were so fine
and rich, and each seemed to surpass all others. They went up
into the warehouses, where was the best and richest furniture; and
they could not sufficiently admire the number and beauty of the
tapestry, beds, couches, cabinets, stands, tables, and looking-glasses,
in which you might see yourself from head to foot. Some of them
were framed with glass, others with silver, plain and gilded, the
most beautiful and the most magnificent ever seen.
They ceased not to praise and envy the happiness of their friend,
who, in the meantime, was not at all amused by looking upon all
these rich things, because of her impatience to go and open the
closet on the ground floor. Her curiosity was so great that, without
considering how uncivil it was to leave her guests, she went down
a little back staircase, with such excessive haste that twice or thrice
she came near breaking her neck. Having reached the closet door,
she stood still for some time, thinking of her husband's orders, and
considering that unhappiness might attend her if she was disobedient;
but the temptation was so strong she could not overcome it. She
then took the little key, and opened the door, trembling. At first she
could not see anything plainly, because the windows were shut.
After some moments she began to perceive that several dead women
were scattered about the floor. (These were all the wives whom
Blue Beard had married and murdered, one after the other, because
they did not obey his orders about the closet on the ground floor.)
She thought she surely would die for fear, and the key, which she
pulled out of the lock, fell out of her hand.
After having somewhat recovered from the shock, she picked
up the key, locked the door, and went upstairs into her chamber
to compose herself; but she could not rest, so much was she
frightened.
Having observed that the key of the closet was stained, she tried
two or three times to wipe off the stain, but the stain would not
come out. In vain did she wash it, and even rub it with soap and
sand. The stain still remained, for the key was a magic key, and
she could never make it quite clean; when the stain was gone off
from one side, it came again on the other.
Blue Beard returned from his journey that same evening, and
said he had received letters upon the road, informing him that the
business which called him away was ended to his advantage. His
wife did all she could to convince him she was delighted at his
speedy return.
Next morning he asked her for the keys, which she gave him, but
with such a trembling hand that he easily guessed what had happened.
"How is it," said he, "that the key of my closet is not among the
rest?"
"I must certainly," said she, "have left it upstairs upon the
table."
"Do not fail," said Blue Beard, "to bring it to me presently."
After having put off doing it several times, she was forced to
bring him the key. Blue Beard, having examined it, said to his
wife:
"How comes this stain upon the key?"
"I do not know," cried the poor woman, paler than death.
"You do not know!" replied Blue Beard. "I very well know.
You wished to go into the cabinet? Very well, madam; you shall
go in, and take your place among the ladies you saw there."
She threw herself weeping at her husband's feet, and begged his
pardon with all the signs of a true repentance for her disobedience.
She would have melted a rock, so beautiful and sorrowful was she;
but Blue Beard had a heart harder than any stone.
"You must die, madam," said he, "and that at once."
"Since I must die," answered she, looking upon him with her eyes
all bathed in tears, "give me some little time to say my prayers."
"I give you," replied Blue Beard, "half a quarter of an hour,
but not one moment more."
When she was alone she called out to her sister, and said to her:
"Sister Anne,"---for that was her name,---"go up, I beg you, to
the top of the tower, and look if my brothers are not coming; they
promised me they would come today, and if you see them, give them
a sign to make haste."
Her sister Anne went up to the top of the tower, and the poor
afflicted wife cried out from time to time:
"Anne, sister Anne, do you see any one coming?"
And sister Anne said:
"I see nothing but the sun, which makes a dust, and the grass,
which looks green."
In the meanwhile Blue Beard, holding a great saber in his hand,
cried to his wife as loud as he could:
"Come down instantly, or I shall come up to you."
"One moment longer, if you please," said his wife; and then she
cried out very softly, "Anne, sister Anne, dost thou see anybody
coming?"
And sister Anne answered:
"I see nothing but the sun, which makes a dust, and the grass,
which is green."
"Come down quickly," cried Blue Beard, "or I will come up to
you."
"I am coming," answered his wife; and then she cried, "Anne,
sister Anne, dost thou not see any one coming?"
"I see," replied sister Anne, "a great dust, which comes from
this side."
"Are they my brothers?"
"Alas! no, my sister, I see a flock of sheep."
"Will you not come down?" cried Blue Beard.
"One moment longer," said his wife, and then she cried out,
"Anne, sister Anne, dost thou see nobody coming?"
"I see," said she, "two horsemen, but they are yet a great way
off."
"God be praised," replied the poor wife, joyfully; "they are my
brothers; I will make them a sign, as well as I can, for them to make
haste."
Then Blue Beard bawled out so loud that he made the whole house
tremble. The distressed wife came down, and threw herself at his
feet, all in tears, with her hair about her shoulders.
"All this is of no help to you," says Blue Beard; "you must
die;" then, taking hold of her hair with one hand, and lifting up
his sword in the air with the other, he was about to take off her head.
The poor lady, turning about to him, and looking at him with dying
eyes, desired him to afford her one little moment to her thoughts.
"No, no," said he, "commend thyself to God," and again lifting
his arm--
At this moment there was such a loud knocking at the gate that
Blue Beard stopped suddenly. The gate was opened, and presently
entered two horsemen, who, with sword in hand, ran directly to
Blue Beard. He knew them to be his wife's brothers, one a dragoon,
the other a musketeer. He ran away immediately, but the two
brothers pursued him so closely that they overtook him before he
could get to the steps of the porch. There they ran their swords
through his body, and left him dead. The poor wife was almost
as dead as her husband, and had not strength enough to arise and
welcome her brothers.
Blue Beard had no heirs, and so his wife became mistress of all
his estate. She made use of one portion of it to marry her sister
Anne to a young gentleman who had loved her a long while; another
portion to buy captains' commissions for her brothers; and the
rest to marry herself to a very worthy gentleman, who made her
forget the sorry time she had passed with Blue Beard.
JACK AND THE BEANSTALK
Joseph Jacobs
There was once upon a time a poor widow who had an only son
named Jack, and a cow named Milky-white. And all they had to
live on was the milk the cow gave every morning, which they carried
to the market and sold. But one morning Milky-white gave
no milk, and they didn't know what to do.
"What shall we do, what shall we do?" said the widow, wringing
her hands.
"Cheer up, mother, I'll go and get work somewhere," said Jack.
"We've tried that before, and nobody would take you," said his
mother; "we must sell Milky-white and with the money start shop,
or something."
"All right, mother," says Jack; "it's market-day today, and I'll
soon sell Milky-white, and then we'll see what we can do."
So he took the cow's halter in his hand, and off he started. He
hadn't gone far when he met a funny-looking old man, who said to
him: "Good morning, Jack."
"Good morning to you," said Jack, and wondered how he knew
his name.
"Well, Jack, and where are you off to?" said the man.
"I'm going to market to sell our cow here."
"Oh, you look the proper sort of chap to sell cows," said the man,
"I wonder if you know how many beans make five."
"Two in each hand and one in your mouth," says Jack, as sharp
as a needle.
"Right you are," says the man, "and here they are, the very beans
themselves," he went on, pulling out of his pocket a number of
strange-looking beans. "As you are so sharp," says he, "I don't
mind a swop with you---your cow for these beans."
"Go along," says Jack; "wouldn't you like it?"
"Ah! you don't know what these beans are," said the man; "if
you plant them over night, by morning they grow right up to the
sky."
"Really?" said Jack; "you don't say so."
"Yes, that is so, and if it doesn't turn out to be true, you can have
your cow back."
"Right," says Jack, and hands him over Milky-white's halter and
pockets the beans.
Back goes Jack home, and as he hadn't gone very far it wasn't
dusk by the time he got to his door.
"Back already, Jack?" said his mother; "I see you haven't
got Milky-white, so you've sold her. How much did you get for
her?"
"You'll never guess, mother," says Jack.
"No, you don't say so. Good boy! Five pounds, ten, fifteen,
no, it can't be twenty."
"I told you you couldn't guess. What do you say to these beans;
they're magical, plant them over night and---"
"What!" says Jack's mother; "have you been such a fool, such
a dolt, such an idiot, as to give away my Milky-white, the best milker
in the parish, and prime beef to boot, for a set of paltry beans?
Take that! Take that! Take that! And as for your precious
beans, here they go out of the window. And now off with you to
bed. Not a sup shall you drink, and not a bit shall you swallow
this very night."
So Jack went upstairs to his little room in the attic, and sad and
sorry he was, to be sure, as much for his mother's sake as for the
loss of his supper.
At last he dropped off to sleep.
When he woke up, the room looked so funny. The sun was shining
into part of it, and yet all the rest was quite dark and shady.
So Jack jumped up and dressed himself and went to the window.
And what do you think he saw? Why, the beans his mother had
thrown out of the window into the garden, had sprung up into a
big beanstalk which went up and up and up till it reached the sky.
So the man spoke truth after all.
The beanstalk grew up quite close past Jack's window, so all he
had to do was to open it and give a jump on to the beanstalk, which
ran up just like a big ladder. So Jack climbed, and he climbed
and he climbed and he climbed and he climbed and he climbed and
he climbed till at last he reached the sky. And when he got there
he found a long, broad road going as straight as a dart. So he
walked along and he walked along till he came to a great big tall
house, and on the doorstep there was a great big tall woman.
"Good morning, mum," says Jack, quite politely. "Could you
be so kind as to give me some breakfast?" For he hadn't had
anything to eat, you know, the night before and was as hungry as
a hunter.
"It's breakfast you want, is it?" says the great big tall woman;
"it's breakfast you'll be if you don't move off from here. My man
is an ogre and there's nothing he likes better than boys broiled on
toast. You'd better be moving on or he'll soon be coming."
"Oh! please, mum, do give me something to eat, mum. I've had
nothing to eat since yesterday morning, really and truly, mum," says
Jack. "I may as well be broiled as die of hunger."
Well, the ogre's wife was not half so bad after all. So she took
Jack into the kitchen, and gave him a chunk of bread and cheese and
a jug of milk. But Jack hadn't half finished these when thump!
thump! thump! the whole house began to tremble with the noise of
some one coming.
"Good gracious me! It's my old man," said the ogre's wife;
"what on earth shall I do? Come along quick and jump in here."
And she bundled Jack into the oven just as the ogre came in.
He was a big one, to be sure. At his belt he had three calves
strung up by the heels, and he unhooked them and threw them down
on the table and said: "Here, wife, broil me a couple of these for
breakfast. Ah! what's this I smell?
"Fee-fi-fo-fum,
I smell the blood of an Englishman,
Be he alive, or be he dead,
I'll have his bones to grind my bread."
"Nonsense, dear," said his wife, "you're dreaming. Or perhaps
you smell the scraps of that little boy you liked so much for
yesterday's dinner. Here, you go and have a wash and tidy up, and
by the time you come back your breakfast'll be ready for you."
So off the ogre went, and Jack was just going to jump out of the
oven and run away when the woman told him not. "Wait till he's
asleep," says she; "he always has a doze after breakfast."
Well, the ogre had his breakfast, and after that he goes to a big
chest and takes out of it a couple of bags of gold, and down he sits
and counts till at last his head began to nod and he began to snore
till the whole house shook again.
Then Jack crept out on tiptoe from his oven, and as he was passing
the ogre he took one of the bags of gold under his arm, and off he
pelters till he came to the beanstalk, and then he threw down the bag
of gold, which of course fell into his mother's garden, and then he
climbed down and climbed down till at last he got home and told
his mother and showed her the gold and said: "Well, mother,
wasn't I right about the beans? They are really magical, you see."
So they lived on the bag of gold for some time, but at last they
came to the end of it, and Jack made up his mind to try his luck once
more at the top of the beanstalk. So one fine morning he rose up
early, and got on to the beanstalk, and he climbed and he climbed
and he climbed and he climbed and he climbed and he climbed till
at last he came out on to the road again and up to the great big tall
house he had been to before. There, sure enough, was the great
big tall woman a-standing on the doorstep.
"Good morning, mum," says Jack, as bold as brass, "could you
be so good as to give me something to eat?"
"Go away, my boy," said the big tall woman, "or else my man
will eat you up for breakfast. But aren't you the youngster who
came here once before? Do you know, that very day, my man
missed one of his bags of gold."
"That's strange, mum," said Jack, "I dare say I could tell you
something about that, but I'm so hungry I can't speak till I've had
something to eat."
Well, the big tall woman was so curious that she took him in and
gave him something to eat. But he had scarcely begun munching
it as slowly as he could when thump! thump! thump! they heard
the giant's footstep, and his wife hid Jack away in the oven.
All happened as it did before. In came the ogre as he did before,
said: "Fee-fi-fo-fum," and had his breakfast of three broiled oxen.
Then he said: "Wife, bring me the hen that lays the golden eggs."
So she brought it, and the ogre said: "Lay," and it laid an egg all
of gold. And then the ogre began to nod his head, and to snore till
the house shook. Then Jack crept out of the oven on tiptoe and
caught hold of the golden hen, and was off before you could say
"Jack Robinson." But this time the hen gave a cackle which woke
the ogre, and just as Jack got out of the house he heard him calling:
"Wife, wife, what have you done with my golden hen?"
And the wife said: "Why, my dear?"
But that was all Jack heard, for he rushed off to the beanstalk and
climbed down like a house on fire. And when he got home, he
showed his mother the wonderful hen, and said "Lay" to it; and it
laid a golden egg every time he said "Lay."
Well, Jack was not content, and it wasn't very long before he determined
to have another try at his luck up there at the top of the beanstalk.
So one fine morning he rose up early, and got on to the beanstalk, and
he climbed and he climbed and he climbed and he climbed till he got to
the top. But this time he knew better than to go straight to the ogre's
house. And when he got near it, he waited behind a bush till he saw the
ogre's wife come out with a pail to get some water, and then he crept
into the house and got into the copper. He hadn't been there long when
he heard thump! thump! thump! as before, and in came the ogre and his
wife.
"Fee-fi-fo-fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman," cried out the
ogre. "I smell him, wife, I smell him."
"Do you, my dearie?" says the ogre's wife. "Then if it's that
little rogue that stole your gold and the hen that laid the golden
eggs he's sure to have got into the oven." And they both rushed to
the oven. But Jack wasn't there, luckily, and the ogre's wife said:
"There you are again with your fee-fi-fo-fum. Why, of course it's
the boy you caught last night that I've just broiled for your breakfast.
How forgetful I am, and how careless you are not to know the
difference between live and dead after all these years."
So the ogre sat down to the breakfast and ate it, but every now
and then he would mutter: "Well, I could have sworn--" and
he'd get up and search the larder and the cupboards and everything;
only, luckily, he didn't think of the copper.
After breakfast was over, the ogre called out: "Wife, wife,
bring me my golden harp." So she brought it out and put it on
the table before him. Then he said: "Sing!" and the golden harp
sang most beautifully. And it went on singing till the ogre fell
asleep and commenced to snore like thunder.
Then Jack lifted up the copper-lid very quietly and got down
like a mouse and crept on hands and knees till he came to the table,
when up he crawled, caught hold of the golden harp and dashed with
it towards the door. But the harp called out quite loud: "Master!
Master!" and the ogre woke up just in time to see Jack running off
with his harp.
Jack ran as fast as he could, and the ogre came rushing after, and
would soon have caught him only Jack had a start and dodged him
a bit and knew where he was going. When he got to the beanstalk
the ogre was not more than twenty yards away when suddenly he saw
Jack disappear-like, and when he came to the end of the road he
saw Jack underneath climbing down for dear life. Well, the ogre
didn't like trusting himself to such a ladder, and he stood and waited,
so Jack got another start. But just then the harp cried out: "Master!
Master!" and the ogre swung himself down on to the beanstalk,
which shook with his weight. Down climbs Jack, and after
him climbed the ogre. By this time Jack had climbed down and
climbed down and climbed down till he was very nearly home. So
he called out: "Mother! Mother! bring me an ax, bring me an
ax." And his mother came rushing out with the ax in her hand,
but when she came to the beanstalk she stood stock still with fright,
for there she saw the ogre with his legs just through the clouds.
But Jack jumped down and got hold of the ax and gave a chop at
the beanstalk which cut it half in two. The ogre felt the beanstalk
shake and quiver, so he stopped to see what was the matter. Then
Jack gave another chop with the ax, and the beanstalk was cut in
two and began to topple over. Then the ogre fell down and broke
his crown, and the beanstalk came toppling after.
Then Jack showed his mother his golden harp, and what with
showing that and selling the golden eggs, Jack and his mother became
very rich, and he married a great princess, and they lived
happy ever after.
THE ELVES
Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm
A shoemaker, by no fault of his own, had become so poor that
at last he had nothing left but leather for one pair of shoes. So
in the evening, he cut out the shoes which he wished to begin to
make the next morning, and as he had a good conscience, he lay
down quietly in his bed, commended himself to God, and fell
asleep.
In the morning, after he had said his prayers, and was just going
to sit down to work, the two shoes stood quite finished on his table.
He was astounded, and did not know what to say to it. He took
the shoes in his hands to observe them closer, and they were so neatly
made that there was not one bad stitch in them, just as if they were
intended as a masterpiece.
Soon after, too, a buyer came in, and as the shoes pleased him so
well, he paid more for them than was customary, and, with the
money, the shoemaker was able to purchase leather for two pairs of
shoes. He cut them out at night, and next morning was about to set
to work with fresh courage; but he had no need to do so, for, when
he got up, they were already made, and buyers also were not
wanting, who gave him money enough to buy leather for four pairs
of shoes. The following morning, too, he found the four pairs
made; and so it went on constantly, what he cut out in the evening
was finished in the morning, so that he soon had his honest independence
again, and at last became a wealthy man.
Now it befell that one evening not long before Christmas, when
the man had been cutting out, he said to his wife, before going to
bed, "What think you if we were to stay up tonight to see who it is
that lends us this helping hand?" The woman liked the idea, and
lighted a candle, and then they hid themselves in a corner of the
room, behind some clothes which were hanging up there, and watched.
When it was midnight, two pretty little naked men came, sat down
by the shoemaker's table, took all the work which was cut out before
them and began to stitch, and sew, and hammer so skillfully and
so quickly with their little fingers that the shoemaker could not turn
away his eyes for astonishment. They did not stop until all was
done and stood finished on the table, and then they ran quickly
away.
Next morning the woman said, "The little men have made us rich,
and we really must show that we are grateful for it. They run
about so, and have nothing on, and must be cold. I'll tell thee
what I'll do: I will make them little shirts, and coats, and vests,
and trousers, and knit both of them a pair of stockings, and do thou,
too, make them two little pairs of shoes." The man said, "I shall
be very glad to do it;" and one night, when everything was ready,
they laid their presents all together on the table instead of the cutout
work, and then concealed themselves to see how the little men
would behave.
At midnight they came bounding in, and wanted to get at work at
once, but as they did not find any leather cut out, but only the pretty
little articles of clothing, they were at first astonished, and then they
showed intense delight. They dressed themselves with the greatest
rapidity, putting the pretty clothes on, and singing,
"Now we are boys so fine to see,
Why should we longer cobblers be?"
Then they danced and skipped and leapt over chairs and benches.
At last they danced out of doors.
From that time forth they came no more, but as long as the shoemaker
lived all went well with him, and all his undertakings prospered.
THE FROG-PRINCE
Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm
One fine evening a young princess went into a wood and sat down
by the side of a cool spring of water. She had a golden ball in
her hand, which was her favorite plaything, and she amused herself
with tossing it into the air and catching it again as it fell. After
a time she threw it up so high that when she stretched out her
hand to catch it, the ball bounded away and rolled along upon the
ground, till at last it fell into the spring. The princess looked into
the spring after her ball; but it was very deep, so deep that she could
not see the bottom of it. Then she began to lament her loss, and
said, "Alas! if I could only get my ball again, I would give all my
fine clothes and jewels, and everything that I have in the world."
While she was speaking a frog put its head out of the water and
said, "Princess, why do you weep so bitterly?" "Alas!" said
she, "what can you do for me, you nasty frog? My golden ball
has fallen into the spring." The frog said, "I want not your pearls
and jewels and fine clothes; but if you will love me and let me live
with you, and eat from your little golden plate, and sleep upon your
little bed, I will bring you your ball again." "What nonsense,"
thought the princess, "this silly frog is talking! He can never get
out of the well: however, he may be able to get my ball for me; and
therefore I will promise him what he asks." So she said to the frog,
"Well, if you will bring me my ball, I promise to do all you require."
Then the frog put his head down, and dived deep under the water;
and after a little while he came up again with the ball in his mouth,
and threw it on the ground. As soon as the young princess saw her
ball, she ran to pick it up, and was so overjoyed to have it in her
hand again, that she never thought of the frog, but ran home with
it as fast as she could. The frog called after her, "Stay, princess,
and take me with you as you promised;" but she did not stop to
hear a word.
The next day, just as the princess had sat down to dinner, she
heard a strange noise, tap-tap, as if somebody was coming up the
marble staircase; and soon afterwards something knocked gently at
the door, and said:
"Open the door, my princess dear,
Open the door to thy true love here!
And mind the words that thou and I said,
By the fountain cool in the greenwood shade."
Then the princess ran to the door and opened it, and there she
saw the frog, whom she had quite forgotten; she was terribly frightened,
and shutting the door as fast as she could, came back to her
seat. The king her father asked her what had frightened her.
"There is a nasty frog," said she, "at the door, who lifted my ball
out of the spring last evening: I promised him that he should live
with me here, thinking that he could never get out of the spring;
but there he is at the door and wants to come in!" While she was
speaking, the frog knocked again at the door, and said:
"Open the door, my princess dear,
Open the door to thy true love here!
And mind the words that thou and I said,
By the fountain cool in the greenwood shade."
The king said to the young princess, "As you have made a
promise, you must keep it; so go and let him in." She did so, and
the frog hopped into the room, and came up close to the table.
"Pray lift me upon a chair," said he to the princess, "and let me sit
next to you." As soon as she had done this, the frog said, "Put
your plate closer to me that I may eat out of it." This she did,
and when he had eaten as much as he could, he said, "Now I am
tired; carry me upstairs and put me into your little bed." And the
princess took him up in her hand and put him upon the pillow of
her own little bed, where he slept all night long. As soon as it
was light, he jumped up, hopped downstairs, and went out of the
house. "Now," thought the princess, "he is gone, and I shall be
troubled with him no more."
But she was mistaken; for when night came again, she heard the
same tapping at the door, and when she opened it, the frog came
in and slept upon her pillow as before till the morning broke:
and the third night he did the same; but when the princess awoke
on the following morning, she was astonished to see, instead of the
frog, a handsome prince standing at the head of her bed, and gazing
on her with the most beautiful eyes that ever were seen.
He told her that he had been enchanted by a malicious fairy, who
had changed him into the form of a frog, in which he was fated to
remain till some princess should take him out of the spring and let
him sleep upon her bed for three nights. "You," said the prince,
"have broken this cruel charm, and now I have nothing to wish for
but that you should go with me into my father's kingdom, where I
will marry you, and love you as long as you live."
The young princess, you may be sure, was not long in giving her
consent; and as they spoke, a splendid carriage drove up with eight
beautiful horses decked with plumes of feathers and golden harness,
and behind rode the prince's servant, the faithful Henry, who
had bewailed the misfortune of his dear master so long and bitterly
that his heart had well-nigh burst. Then all set out full of joy
for the prince's kingdom, where they arrived safely, and lived happily
a great many years.
THE QUERN AT THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA
Peter Christen Asbjørnsen
Once upon a time in the old, old days there were two brothers, one
of whom was rich and the other poor. When Christmas Eve came
the poor brother had not a morsel in the house, neither of meat nor
bread; and so he went to his rich brother, and asked for a trifle
for Christmas, in heaven's name. It was not the first time the
brother had helped him, but he was always very close-fisted, and was
not particularly glad to see him this time.
"If you'll do what I tell you, you shall have a whole ham," he
said. The poor brother promised he would, and was very grateful
into the bargain.
"There it is, and now go to the devil!" said the rich brother,
and threw the ham across to him.
"Well, what I have promised I must keep," said the other one.
He took the ham, and set out. He walked and walked the whole day,
and as it was getting dark he came to a place where the lights were
shining brightly. "This is most likely the place," thought the man
with the ham.
In the woodshed stood an old man with a long white beard, cutting
firewood for Christmas.
"Good evening," said he with the ham.
"Good evening to you," said the man. "Where are you going
so late?"
"I am going to the devil--that is to say, if I am on the right
way," answered the poor man.
"Yes, you are quite right; this is his place," said the old man.
"When you get in they will all want to buy your ham, for ham is
scarce food here; but you must not sell it unless you get the hand-quern,
which stands just behind the door. When you come out again I'll teach
you how to use it. You will find it useful in many ways."
The man with the ham thanked him for all the information and
knocked at the door.
When he got in it happened just as the old man had said. All
the imps, both big and small, flocked around him like ants in a field,
and the one outbid the other for the ham.
"Well," said the man, "my good woman and I were to have it
for Christmas Eve, but since you want it so badly I will let you
have it. But if I am going to part with it, I want that hand-quern
which stands behind the door."
The devil did not like to part with it, and higgled and haggled
with the man, but he stuck to what he had said, and in the end the
devil had to part with the quern.
When the man came out he asked the old woodcutter how he was
to use the quern, and when he had learned this, he thanked the old
man and set out homeward, as quickly as he could; but after all he
did not get home till the clock struck twelve on Christmas Eve.
"Where in all the world have you been?" said his wife. "Here
have I been sitting, hour after hour, waiting and watching for you,
and have not had as much as two chips to lay under the porridge
pot."
"Well, I couldn't get back before," said the man. "I have had
a good many things to look after, and I've had a long way to walk
as well; but now I'll show you something," said he, and he put the
quern on the table. He asked it first to grind candles, then a cloth,
and then food and beer, and everything else that was good for
Christmas cheer; and as he spoke the quern brought them forth. The
woman crossed herself time after time and wanted to know where her
husband had got the quern from; but this he would not tell her.
"It does not matter where I got it from; you see the quern is good
and the mill stream is not likely to freeze," said the man. So he
ground food and drink and all good things during Christmas; and
the third day he invited his friends, as he wanted to give them a
feast. When the rich brother saw all that was in the house, he became
both angry and furious, for he begrudged his brother everything.
"On Christmas Eve he was so needy that he came to me and asked
for a trifle in heaven's name; and now he gives a feast, as if he were
both a count and a king," said the brother. "Where did you get
all your riches from?" he said to his brother.
"From just behind the door," he answered, for he did not care
to tell his brother much about it. But later in the evening, when
he had drunk a little freely, he could no longer resist, but brought
out the quern.
"There you see that which has brought me all my riches,"
he said, and so he let the quern grind first one thing and then
another.
When the brother saw this he was determined to have the quern
at all cost, and at last it was settled he should have it, but three
hundred dollars was to be the price of it. The brother was, however,
to keep it till the harvest began; "for if I keep it so long I
can grind out food for many years to come," he thought.
During that time you may be sure the quern did not rust, and
when the harvest began the rich brother got it; but the other had
taken great care not to show him how to use it.
It was evening when the rich brother got the quern home, and in
the morning he asked his wife to go out and help the haymakers;
he would get the breakfast ready for himself, he said.
When it was near breakfast time he put the quern on the breakfast
table.
"Grind herrings and broth, and do it quickly and well," said the
man, and the quern began to bring forth herrings and broth, and
first filled all the dishes and tubs, and afterward began flooding the
whole kitchen.
The man fiddled and fumbled and tried to stop the quern, but
however much he twisted and fingered it, the quern went on grinding,
and in a little while the broth reached so high that the man was
very near drowning. He then pulled open the parlor door, but it
was not very long before the quern had filled the parlor also, and
it was just in the very nick of time that the man put his hand down
into the broth and got hold of the latch, and when he had got the
door open, he was soon out of the parlor, you may be sure. He
rushed out, and the herrings and the broth came pouring out after
him, like a stream, down the fields and meadows.
The wife, who was out haymaking, now thought it took too long a
time to get the breakfast ready.
"If my husband doesn't call us soon we must go home whether
or no: I don't suppose he knows much about making broth, so I
must go and help him," said the wife to the haymakers.
They began walking homeward, but when they had got a bit up the
hill they met the stream of broth with the herrings tossing about
in it and the man himself running in front of it all.
"I wish all of you had a hundred stomachs each!" shouted the
man; "but take care you don't get drowned." And he rushed past
them as if the Evil One were at his heels, down to where his brother
lived. He asked him for heaven's sake to take back the quern, and
that at once; "if it goes on grinding another hour the whole parish
will perish in broth and herrings," he said. But the brother would
not take it back on any account before his brother had paid him
three hundred dollars more, and this he had to do. The poor
brother now had plenty of money, and before long he bought a farm
much grander than the one on which his rich brother lived, and
with the quern he ground so much gold that he covered the farmstead
with gold plates, and, as it lay close to the shore, it glittered
and shone far out at sea. All those who sailed past wanted to
call and visit the rich man in the golden house, and everybody
wanted to see the wonderful quern, for its fame had spread far and
wide, and there was no one who had not heard it spoken of.
After a long while there came a skipper who wanted to see the
quern; he asked if it could grind salt. Yes, that it could, said he
who owned it; and when the skipper heard this he wanted the quern
by hook or crook, cost what it might, for if he had it he thought he
need not sail far away across dangerous seas for cargoes of salt.
At first the man did not want to part with it, but the skipper both
begged and prayed, and at last he sold it and got many, many thousand
dollars for it.
As soon as the skipper had got the quern on his back, he did not
stop long, for he was afraid the man would change his mind, and
as for asking how to use it he had no time to do that; he made for his
ship as quickly as he could, and when he had got out to sea a bit
he had the quern brought up on deck.
"Grind salt, and that both quickly and well," said the skipper,
and the quern began to grind out salt so that it spurted to all sides.
When the skipper had got the ship filled he wanted to stop the
quern, but however much he tried and whatever he did the quern
went on grinding, and the mound of salt grew higher and higher,
and at last the ship sank.
There at the bottom of the sea stands the quern grinding till this
very day, and that is the reason why the sea is salt.
BROTHER RABBIT AND BROTHER BULL-FROG
Joel Chandler Harris
The day that the little boy got permission to go to mill with Uncle
Remus was to be long remembered. It was a brand-new experience
to the little city-bred child, and he enjoyed it to the utmost. It is
true that Uncle Remus didn't go to mill in the old-fashioned way,
but even if the little chap had known of the old-fashioned way, his
enjoyment would not have been less. Instead of throwing a bag
of corn on the back of a horse, and perching himself on top in an
uneasy and a precarious position, Uncle Remus placed the corn in a
spring wagon, helped the little boy to climb into the seat, clucked to
the horse, and went along as smoothly and as rapidly as though they
were going to town.
Everything was new to the lad--the road, the scenery, the mill,
and the big mill pond, and, best of all, Uncle Remus allowed him to
enjoy himself in his own way when they came to the end of the
journey. He was such a cautious and timid child, having little or
none of the spirit of adventure that is supposed to dominate the
young, that the old negro was sure he would come to no harm. Instead
of wandering about, and going to places where he had no business
to go, the little boy sat where he could see the water flowing
over the big dam. He had never seen such a sight before, and the
water seemed to him to have a personality of its own--a personality
with both purpose and feeling.
The river was not a very large one, but it was large enough to be
impressive when its waters fell and tumbled over the big dam. The
little boy watched the tumbling water as it fell over the dam and
tossed itself into foam on the rocks below; he watched it so long
and he sat so still that he was able to see things that a noisier
youngster would have missed altogether. He saw a big bull-frog
creep warily from the water and wipe his mouth and eyes with one
of his fore legs, and he saw the same frog edge himself softly toward
a white butterfly that was flitting about near the edge of the stream.
He saw the frog lean forward, and then the butterfly vanished. It
seemed like a piece of magic. The child knew that the frog had
caught the butterfly, but how? The fluttering insect was more than
a foot from the frog when it disappeared, and he was sure that the
frog had neither jumped nor snapped at the butterfly. What he saw,
he saw as plainly as you see your hand in the light of day.
And he saw another sight too that is not given to every one to
see. While he was watching the tumbling water and wondering
where it all came from and where it was going, he thought he saw
swift-moving shadows flitting from the water below up and into
the mill pond above. He never would have been able to discover
just what the shadows were if one of them had not paused a
moment while halfway to the top of the falling water. It poised
itself for one brief instant, as a humming-bird poises over a flower,
but during that fraction of time the little boy was able to see that
what he thought was a shadow was really a fish going from the
water below to the mill pond above. The child could hardly believe
his eyes, and for a little while it seemed that the whole world
was turned topsy-turvy, especially as the shadows continued to flit
from the water below to the mill pond above.
And he was still more puzzled when he reported the strange
fact to Uncle Remus, for the old negro took the information as a
matter of course. With him the phenomenon was almost as old as
his experience. The only explanation that he could give of it was
that the fish--or some kinds of fish, and he didn't know rightly
what kind it was--had a habit of falling from the bottom of the
falls to the top. The most that he knew was that it was a fact,
and that it was occurring every day in the year when the fish were
running. It was certainly wonderful, as in fact everything would be
wonderful if it were not so familiar.
"We ain't got but one way er lookin' at things," remarked Uncle
Remus, "an' ef you'll b'lieve me, honey, it's a mighty one-sided way.
Ef you could git on a perch some'rs an' see things like dey reely is,
an' not like dey seem ter us, I be boun' you'd hol' yo' breff an' shet
yo' eyes."
The old man, without intending it, was going too deep into a deep
subject for the child to follow him, and so the latter told him about
the bull-frog and the butterfly. The statement seemed to call up
pleasing reminiscences, for Uncle Remus laughed in a hearty way.
And when his laughing had subsided, he continued to chuckle until
the little boy wondered what the source of his amusement could
be. Finally he asked the old negro point blank what had caused him
to laugh at such a rate.
"Yo' pa would 'a' know'd," Uncle Remus replied, and then he
grew solemn again and sighed heavily. For a little while he seemed
to be listening to the clatter of the mill, but, finally, he turned to the
little boy. "An' so you done made de 'quaintance er ol' Brer Bull-Frog?
Is you take notice whedder he had a tail er no?"
"Why, of course he didn't have a tail!" exclaimed the child.
"Neither toad-frogs nor bull-frogs have tails. I thought everybody
knew that."
"Oh, well, ef dat de way you feel 'bout um, 'taint no use fer ter
pester wid um. It done got so now dat folks don't b'lieve nothin'
but what dey kin see, an' mo' dan half un um won't b'lieve what dey
see less'n dey kin feel un it too. But dat ain't de way wid dem
what's ol' 'nough fer ter know. Ef I'd 'a' tol' you 'bout de fishes
swimmin' ag'in fallin' water, you wouldn't 'a' b'lieved me, would
you? No, you wouldn't--an' yet, dar 'twuz right 'fo' yo' face an'
eyes. Dar dey wuz a-skeetin' fum de bottom er de dam right up in
de mill pon', an' you settin' dar lookin' at um. S'posin' you wuz ter
say dat you won't b'lieve um less'n you kin feel um; does you speck
de fish gwineter hang dar in de fallin' water an' wait twel you kin
wade 'cross de slipp'y rocks an' put yo' han' on um? Did you look
right close, fer ter see ef de bull-frog what you seed is got a tail
er no?"
The little boy admitted that he had not. He knew as well as
anybody that no kind of a frog has a tail unless it is the Texas frog,
which is only a horned lizard, for he saw one once in Atlanta, and
it was nothing but a rusty-back lizard with a horn on his head.
"I ain't 'sputin' what you say, honey," said Uncle Remus, "but
de creetur what you seed mought 'a' been a frog an' you not know
it. One thing I does know is dat in times gone by de bull-frog had
a tail, kaze I hear de ol folks sesso, an' mo' dan dat, dey know'd
des how he los' it--de whar, an' de when an' de which-away. Fer
all I know it wuz right here at dish yer identual mill pon'. I ain't
gwine inter court an' make no affledave on it, but ef anybody wuz
ter walk up an' p'int der finger at me, an' say dat dis is de place
where ol' Brer Bull-Frog lose his tail, I'd up and 'low, 'Yasser, it
mus' be de place, kaze it look might'ly like de place what I been
hear tell 'bout.' An' den I'd set my eyes an' see ef I can't git it
straight in my dreams."
Uncle Remus paused and pretended to be counting a handful of
red grains of corn that he had found somewhere in the mill. Seeing
that he showed no disposition to tell how Brother Bull-Frog had
lost his tail, the little boy reminded him of it. But the old man
laughed. "Ef Brer Bull-Frog ain't never had no tail," he said,
"how de name er goodness he gwineter lose un? Ef he yever is had
a tail, why den dat's a gray boss uv an'er color. Dey's a tale 'bout
'im havin' a tail an' losin' it, but how kin dey be a tale when dey
ain't no tail?"
Well, the little boy didn't know at all, and he looked so disconsolate
and so confused that the old negro relented. "Now, den,"
he remarked, "ef ol' Brer Bull-Frog had a tail an' he ain't got none
now, dey must 'a' been sump'n happen. In dem times--de times
what all deze tales tells you 'bout--Brer Bull-Frog stayed in an'
aroun' still water des like he do now. De bad col' dat he had in
dem days, he's got it yit--de same pop-eyes, and de same bal'
head. Den, ez now, dey wa'n't a bunch er ha'r on it dat you could
pull out wid a pa'r er tweezers. Ez he bellers now, des dat a-way
he bellered den, mo' speshually at night. An' talk 'bout settin' up
late--why, ol' Brer Bull-Frog could beat dem what fust got in de
habits er settin' up late.
"Dey's one thing dat you'll hatter gi' 'im credit fer, an' dat wuz
keepin' his face an' han's clean, an' in takin' keer er his cloze. Nobody,
not even his mammy, had ter patch his britches er tack buttons
on his coat. See 'im whar you may an' when you mought, he wuz
allers lookin' spick an' span des like he done come right out'n a ban'-box.
You know what de riddle say 'bout 'im: when he stan' up he
sets down, an' when he walks he hops. He'd 'a' been mighty well
thunk un, ef it hadn't but 'a' been fer his habits. He holler so
much at night dat de yuther creeturs can't git no sleep. He'd holler
an' holler, an' 'bout de time you think he bleeze ter be 'shame' er
hollerin' so much, he'd up an' holler 'gi'n. It got so dat de creeturs
hatter go 'way off some'rs ef dey wanter git any sleep, an' it
seem like dey can't git so fur off but what Brer Bull-Frog would wake
um up time dey git ter dozin' good.
"He'd raise up an' low, _'Here I is! Here I is! Wharbouts is
you? Wharbouts is you? Come along! Come along!'_ It 'uz
des dat a-way de whole blessed night, an' de yuther creeturs, dey say
dat it sholy was a shame dat anybody would set right flat-footed an'
ruin der good name. Look like he pestered ev'ybody but ol' Brer
Rabbit, an' de reason dat he liked it wuz kaze it worried de yuther
creeturs. He'd set an' lissen, ol' Brer Rabbit would, an' den he'd
laugh fit ter kill kaze he ain't a-keerin' whedder er no he git any sleep
or not. Ef dey's anybody what kin set up twel de las' day in de
mornin' an' not git red-eyed an' heavy-headed, it's ol' Brer Rabbit.
When he wanter sleep, he'd des shet one eye an' sleep, an' when he
wanter stay 'wake, he'd des open bofe eyes, an' dar he wuz wid all
his foots under 'im, an' a-chawin' his terbacker same ez ef dey
wa'n't no Brer Bull-Frog in de whole Nunited State er Georgy.
"It went on dis way fer I dunner how long--ol' Brer Bull-Frog
a-bellerin' all night long an' keepin' de yuther creeturs 'wake, an'
Brer Rabbit a-laughin'. But, bimeby, de time come when Brer
Rabbit hatter lay in some mo' calamus root, ag'in de time when 't
would be too col' ter dig it, an' when he went fer ter hunt fer it,
his way led 'im down todes de mill pon' whar Brer Bull-Frog live
at. Dey wuz calamus root a-plenty down dar, an' Brer Rabbit, atter
lookin' de groun' over, promise hisse'f dat he'd fetch a basket de nex'
time he come, an' make one trip do fer two. He ain't been dar long
'fo' he had a good chance fer ter hear Brer Bull-Frog at close range.
He hear him, he did, an' he shake his head an' say dat a mighty
little bit er dat music would go a long ways, kaze dey ain't nobody
what kin stan' flat-footed an' say dat Brer Bull-Frog is a better singer
dan de mockin'-bird.
"Well, whiles Brer Rabbit wuz pirootin' roun' fer ter see what
mought be seed, he git de idee dat he kin hear thunder way off yander.
He lissen ag'in, an' he hear Brer Bull-Frog mumblin' an' grumblin'
ter hisse'f, an' he must 'a' had a mighty bad col', kaze his talk soun'
des like a bummil-eye bee been kotch in a sugar-barrel an' can't git
out. An' dat creetur must 'a' know'd dat Brer Rabbit wuz down in
dem neighborhoods, kaze, atter while, he 'gun to talk louder, an' yit
mo' louder. He say, _'Whar you gwine? Whar you gwine?'_ an'
den, '_Don't go too fur--don't go too fur!_' an', atter so long a
time, '_Come back--come back! Come back soon!_' Brer Rabbit, he
sot dar, he did, an' work his nose an' wiggle his mouf, an' wait fer
ter see what gwineter happen nex'.
"Whiles Brer Rabbit settin' dar, Brer Bull-Frog fall ter mumblin'
ag'in an' it look like he 'bout ter drap off ter sleep, but bimeby
he talk louder, '_Be my frien'--be my frien'! Oh, be my frien'!_'
Brer Rabbit wunk one eye an' smole a smile, kaze he done hear a
heap er talk like dat. He wipe his face an' eyes wid his pocket-hankcher,
an' sot so still dat you'd 'a' thunk he wa'n't nothin' but a
chunk er wood. But Brer Bull-Frog, he know'd how ter stay still
hisse'f, an' he ain't so much ez bubble a bubble. But atter whiles,
when Brer Rabbit can't stay still no mo,' he got up fum whar he wuz
settin' at an' mosied out by de mill-race whar de grass is fresh an' de
trees is green.
"Brer Bull-Frog holla, '_Jug-er-rum--jug-er-rum! Wade in
here--I'll gi' you some!_' Now der nothin' dat ol' Brer Rabbit
like better dan a little bit er dram fer de stomach-ache, an' his mouf
'gun ter water right den an' dar. He went a little closer ter de mill
pon', an' Brer Bull-Frog keep on a-talkin' 'bout de jug er rum,
an' what he gwine do ef Brer Rabbit'will wade in dar. He look at
de water, an' it look mighty col'; he look ag'in an' it look mighty
deep. It say, 'Lap-lap!' an' it look like it's a-creepin' higher.
Brer Rabbit drawed back wid a shiver, an' he wish mighty much dat
he'd a fotch his overcoat.
"Brer Bull-Frog say, '_Knee deep--knee deep! Wade in--
wade in!_' an' he make de water bubble des like he takin' a dram.
Den an' dar, sump'n n'er happen, an' how it come ter happen Brer
Rabbit never kin tell; but he peeped in de pon' fer ter see ef he kin
ketch a glimp er de jug, an' in he went--_kerchug!_ He ain't never
know whedder he fall in, er slip in, er ef he was pushed in, but
dar he wuz! He come mighty nigh not gittin' out; but he scramble
an' he scuffle twel he git back ter de bank whar he kin clim' out,
an' he stood dar, he did, an' kinder shuck hisse'f, kaze he mighty
glad fer ter fin' dat he's in de worl' once mo'. He know'd dat a
lettel mo' an' he'd 'a' been gone fer good, kaze when he drapped in,
er jumped in, er fell in, he wuz over his head an' years, an' he
hatter do a sight er kickin' an' scufflin' an' swallerin' water 'fo' he kin
git whar he kin grab de grass on de bank.
"He sneeze an' snoze, an' wheeze an' whoze, twel it look like he'd
drown right whar he wuz stan'in' anyway you kin fix it. He say ter
hisse'f dat he ain't never gwineter git de tas'e er river water outer
his mouf an' nose, an' he wonder how in de worl' dat plain water
kin be so watery. Ol' Brer Bull-Frog, he laugh like a bull in de
pastur', an' Brer Rabbit gi' a sidelong look dat oughter tol' 'im ez
much ez a map kin tell one er deze yer school scholars. Brer Rabbit
look at 'im, but he ain't say narry a word. He des shuck hisse'f
once mo', an' put out fer home whar he kin set in front er de fire
an' git dry.
"Atter dat day, Brer Rabbit riz mighty soon an' went ter bed late,
an' he watch Brer Bull-Frog so close dat dey wa'n't nothin' he kin do
but what Brer Rabbit know' 'bout it time it 'uz done; an' one
thing he know'd better dan all--he know' dat when de winter time
come Brer Bull-Frog would have ter pack up his duds an' move over
in de bog whar de water don't git friz up. Dat much he know'd, an'
when dat time come, he laid off fer ter make Brer Bull-Frog's journey,
short ez it wuz, ez full er hap'nin's ez de day when de ol' cow
went dry. He tuck an' move his bed an' board ter de big holler
poplar, not fur fum de mill pon', an' dar he stayed an' keep one eye
on Brer Bull-Frog bofe night an' day. He ain't lose no flesh whiles
he waitin', kaze he ain't one er deze yer kin' what mopes an' gits
sollumcolly; he wuz all de time betwixt a grin an' a giggle.
"He know'd mighty well--none better--dat time goes by turns
in deze low groun's, an' he wait fer de day when Brer Bull-Frog
gwineter move his belongin's fum pon' ter bog. An' bimeby dat
time come, an' when it come, Brer Bull-Frog is done fergit off'n his
mind all 'bout Brer Rabbit an' his splashification. He rig hisse'f
out in his Sunday best, an' he look kerscrumptious ter dem what like
dat kinder doin's. He had on a little sojer hat wid green an' white
speckles all over it, an' a long green coat, an' satin britches, an'
a white silk wescut, an' shoes wid silver buckles. Mo' dan dat, he
had a green umbrell fer ter keep fum havin' freckles, an' his long
spotted tail wuz done up in de umbrell kivver so dat it won't drag on
de groun'."
Uncle Remus paused to see what the little boy would say to this
last statement, but the child's training prevented the asking of many
questions, and so he only laughed at the idea of a frog with a tail,
and the tail done up in the cover of a green umbrella. The laughter
of the youngster was hearty enough to satisfy the old negro, and he
went on with the story.
"Whiles all dis goin' on, honey, you better b'lieve dat Brer Rabbit
wa'n't so mighty fur fum dar. When Brer Bull-Frog come out
an' start fer ter promenade ter de bog, Brer Rabbit show hisse'f an'
make like he skeered. He broke an' run, an' den he stop fer ter see
what 'tis--an' den he run a leetle ways an' stop ag'in, an' he keep on
dodgin' an' runnin' twel he fool Brer Bull-Frog inter b'lievin' dat he
wuz skeer'd mighty nigh ter death.
"You know how folks does when dey git de idee dat somebody's
feared un um--ef you don't you'll fin' out long 'fo' yo' whiskers gits
ter hangin' to yo' knees. When folks take up dis idee, dey gits
biggity, an' dey ain't no stayin' in de same country wid um.
"Well, Brer Bull-Frog, he git de idee dat Brer Rabbit wuz 'fear'd
un 'im, an' he shuck his umbrell like he mad, an' he beller: 'Whar
my gun?' Brer Rabbit flung up bofe han's like he wuz skeer'd er
gittin' a load er shot in his vitals, an' den he broke an' run ez hard
ez he kin. Brer Bull-Frog holler out, 'Come yer, you vilyun, an'
le' me' gi' you de frailin' what I done promise you!' but ol' Brer
Rabbit, he keep on a-gwine. Brer Bull-Frog went hoppin' atter,
but he ain't make much headway, kaze all de time he wuz hoppin'
he wuz tryin' to strut.
"'Twuz e'en about ez much ez Brer Rabbit kin do ter keep fum
laughin', but he led Brer Bull-Frog ter de holler poplar, whar he
had his hatchet hid. Ez he went in' he 'low, 'You can't git me!'
He went in, he did, an' out he popped on t'er side. By dat time
Brer Bull-Frog wuz mighty certain an' sho dat Brer Rabbit wuz
skeer'd ez he kin be, an' inter de holler he went, widout so much ez
takin' de trouble ter shet up his umbrell. When he got in de holler,
in co'se he ain't see hide ner ha'r er Brer Rabbit, an' he beller out,
'Whar is you? You may hide, but I'll fin' you, an' when I does
--when I does!' He ain't say all he wanter say, kaze by dat time
Brer Rabbit wuz lammin' on de tree wid his hatchet. He hit it some
mighty heavy whacks, an' Brer Bull-Frog git de idee dat somebody
wuz cuttin' it down.
"Dat kinder skeer'd 'im, kaze he know dat ef de tree fell while he
in de holler, it'd be all-night Isom wid him. But when he make a
move fer ter turn roun' in dar fer ter come out, Brer Rabbit run
roun' ter whar he wuz, an' chop his tail off right smick-smack-smoove."
The veteran story-teller paused, and looked at the clouds that
were gathering in the sky. "'Twouldn't 'stonish me none," he
remarked dryly, "ef we wuz ter have some fallin' wedder."
"But, Uncle Remus, what happened when Brother Rabbit cut off
the Bull-Frog's tail?" inquired the little boy.
The old man sighed heavily, and looked around, as if he were
hunting for some way of escape. "Why, honey, when de Frog tail
wuz cut off, it stayed off, but dey tells me dat it kep' on a wigglin'
plum twel de sun went down. Dis much I does know, dat sence
dat day, none er de Frog fambly has been troubled wid tails. Ef
you don't believe me you kin ketch um an' see."
BROWNIE AND THE COOK
Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
There was once a little Brownie who lived--where do you
think he lived?--In a coal cellar.
Now a coal cellar may seem a most curious place to choose to
live in; but then a Brownie is a curious creature--a fairy, and
yet not one of that sort of fairies who fly about on gossamer
wings, and dance in the moonlight, and so on. He never dances;
and as to wings, what use would they be to him in a coal cellar?
He is a sober, stay-at-home household elf--nothing much to look
at, even if you did see him, which you are not likely to do--only
a little old man, about a foot high, all dressed in brown, with a
brown face and hands, and a brown peaked cap, just the color of a
brown mouse. And like a mouse he hides in corners--especially
kitchen corners, and only comes out after dark when nobody is about,
and so sometimes people call him Mr. Nobody.
I said you were not likely to see him. I never did, certainly, and
never knew anybody that did; but still, if you were to go into
Devonshire, you would hear many funny stories about Brownies in
general, and so I may as well tell you the adventures of this
particular Brownie, who belonged to a family there; which family he
had followed from house to house, most faithfully, for years and
years.
A good many people had heard him--or supposed they had--
when there were extraordinary noises about the house; noises which
must have come from a mouse or a rat--or a Brownie. But nobody
had ever seen him, except the children, the three little boys and
three little girls--who declared he often came to play with them when
they were alone, and was the nicest companion in the world, though
he was such an old man--hundreds of years old! He was full of
fun and mischief and up to all sorts of tricks, but he never did
anybody any harm unless they deserved it.
Brownie was supposed to live under one particular coal, in the
darkest corner of the cellar, which was never allowed to be
disturbed. Why he had chosen it nobody knew, and how he lived there,
nobody knew either; nor what he lived upon. Except that, ever
since the family could remember, there had always been a bowl of
milk put behind the coal cellar door for the Brownie's supper.
Perhaps he drank it--perhaps he didn't: anyhow, the bowl was
always found empty next morning.
The old Cook, who had lived all her life in the family, had never
once forgotten to give Brownie his supper; but at last she died, and a
young Cook came in her stead, who was very apt to forget everything.
She was also both careless and lazy, and disliked taking
the trouble to put a bowl of milk in the same place every night for
Mr. Nobody. "She didn't believe in Brownies," she said; "she
had never seen one, and seeing's believing." So she laughed at the
other servants, who looked very grave, and put the bowl of milk in
its place as often as they could, without saying much about it.
But once, when Brownie woke up, at his usual hour for rising--
ten o'clock at night, and looked round in search of his supper--
which was in fact his breakfast, he found nothing there. At first
he could not imagine such neglect, and went smelling and smelling
about for his bowl of milk--it was not always placed in the same
corner now--but in vain.
"This will never do," said he; and being extremely hungry, began
running about the coal cellar to see what he could find. His eyes
were as useful in the dark as in the light--like a pussycat's; but
there was nothing to be seen--not even a potato paring, or a dry
crust, or a well-gnawed bone, such as Tiny the terrier sometimes
brought into the coal cellar and left on the floor. Nothing, in short,
but heaps of coals and coal dust, which even a Brownie cannot eat,
you know.
"Can't stand this; quite impossible!" said the Brownie, tightening
his belt to make his poor little inside feel less empty. He had been
asleep so long--about a week, I believe, as was his habit when there
was nothing to do---that he seemed ready to eat his own head, or his
boots, or anything. "What's to be done? Since nobody brings my
supper I must go and fetch it."
He spoke quickly, for he always thought quickly and made up
his mind in a minute. To be sure it was a very little mind, like his
little body; but he did the best he could with it, and was not a bad
sort of old fellow after all. In the house he had never done any
harm--and often some good, for he frightened away all the rats,
mice, and black beetles. Not the crickets--he liked them, as the
old Cook had done: she said they were such cheerful creatures, and
always brought luck to the house. But the young Cook could not
bear them, and used to pour boiling water down their holes, and set
basins of beer with little wooden bridges up to the rim, that they
might walk up, tumble in, and be drowned.
So there was not even a cricket singing in the silent house when
Brownie put his head out of his coal cellar door, which, to his
surprise, he found open. Old Cook used to lock it every night;
but the young Cook had left that key, and the kitchen and pantry
keys too, all dangling in the lock, so that any thief might have got
in and wandered all over the house without being found out.
"Hurrah, here's luck!" cried Brownie, tossing his cap up in
the air, and bounding right through the scullery into the kitchen.
It was quite empty, but there was a good fire burning itself out--
just for its own amusement, and the remains of a capital supper
were spread on the table--enough for half-a-dozen people being
left still.
Would you like to know what there was? Devonshire cream, of
course; and part of a large dish of junket, which is something like
curds and whey. Lots of bread and butter and cheese, and half an
apple pudding. Also a great jug of cider and another of milk,
and several half-full glasses, and no end of dirty plates, knives, and
forks. All were scattered about the table in the most untidy fashion,
just as the servants had risen from their supper, without thinking to
put anything away.
Brownie screwed up his little old face and turned up his button
of a nose, and gave a long whistle. You might not believe it, seeing
he lived in a coal cellar, but really he liked tidiness and always
played his pranks upon disorderly or slovenly folk.
"Whew!" said he, "here's a chance! What a supper I'll get
now!"
And he jumped on to a chair and thence to the table, but so quietly
that the large black cat with four white paws, called Muff, because
she was so fat and soft and her fur so long, who sat dozing in front
of the fire, just opened one eye and went to sleep again. She had
tried to get her nose into the milk jug, but it was too small; and
the junket dish was too deep for her to reach, except with one paw.
She didn't care much for bread and cheese and apple pudding, and
was very well fed besides; so after just wandering round the table
she had jumped down from it again, and settled herself to sleep on
the hearth.
But Brownie had no notion of going to sleep. He wanted his
supper, and oh! what a supper he did eat! first one thing and then
another, and then trying everything all over again. And oh! what
a lot he drank!--first milk and then cider, and then mixed the two
together in a way that would have disagreed with anybody except a
Brownie. As it was, he was obliged to slacken his belt several times,
and at last took it off altogether. But he must have had a most
extraordinary capacity for eating and drinking--since, after he
had nearly cleared the table, he was just as lively as ever, and
began jumping about on the table as if he had had no supper at all.
Now his jumping was a little awkward, for there happened to be
a clean white tablecloth! as this was only Monday, it had had no time
to get dirty--untidy as the Cook was. And you know Brownie lived
in a coal cellar, and his feet were black with running about in coal
dust. So wherever he trod, he left the impression behind; until at
last the whole tablecloth was covered with black marks.
Not that he minded this; in fact, he took great pains to make the
cloth as dirty as possible; and then laughing loudly, "Ho, ho, ho!"
leaped on to the hearth, and began teasing the cat; squeaking like a
mouse, or chirping like a cricket, or buzzing like a fly; and altogether
disturbing poor Pussy's mind so much, that she went and hid herself in
the farthest corner, and left him the hearth all to himself, where he
lay at ease till daybreak.
Then, hearing a slight noise overhead, which might be the servants
getting up, he jumped on to the table again--gobbled up the
few remaining crumbs for his breakfast, and scampered off to his
coal cellar; where he hid himself under his big coal, and fell asleep
for the day.
Well, the Cook came downstairs rather earlier than usual, for she
remembered she had to clear off the remains of supper; but lo and
behold, there was nothing left to clear! Every bit of food was
eaten up--the cheese looked as if a dozen mice had been nibbling
at it, and nibbled it down to the very rind; the milk and cider were
all drunk--and mice don't care for milk and cider, you know: as for
the apple pudding, it had vanished altogether; and the dish was
licked as clean as if Boxer the yard dog had been at it, in his
hungriest mood.
"And my white tablecloth--oh, my clean white tablecloth!
What can have been done to it?" cried she in amazement. For it
was all over little black footmarks, just the size of a baby's foot--
only babies don't wear shoes with nails in them, and don't run about
and climb on kitchen tables after all the family have gone to bed.
Cook was a little frightened; but her fright changed to anger
when she saw the large black cat stretched comfortably on the
hearth. Poor Muff had crept there for a little snooze after Brownie
went away.
"You nasty cat! I see it all now; it's you that have eaten up all
the supper; it's you that have been on my clean tablecloth with
your dirty paws."
They were white paws, and as clean as possible; but Cook never
thought of that, any more than she did of the fact that cats don't
usually drink cider or eat apple pudding.
"I'll teach you to come stealing food in this way; take that--
and that--and that!"
Cook got hold of a broom and beat poor Pussy till the creature ran
mewing away. She couldn't speak, you know--unfortunate cat!
and tell people that it was Brownie who had done it all.
Next night Cook thought she would make all safe and sure; so,
instead of letting the cat sleep by the fire, she shut her up in the
chilly coal cellar--locked the door, put the key in her pocket, and
went off to bed; leaving the supper as before.
When Brownie woke up and looked out of his hole, there was as
usual no supper for him, and the cellar was close shut. He peered
about, to try and find some cranny under the door to creep out at,
but there was none. And he felt so hungry that he could almost
have eaten the cat, who kept walking to and fro in a melancholy
manner--only she was alive, and he couldn't well eat her alive:--
besides he knew she was old, and had an idea she might be tough;
so he merely said, politely, "How do you do, Mrs. Pussy?" to
which she answered nothing--of course.
Something must be done, and luckily Brownies can do things
which nobody else can do. So he thought he would change himself
into a mouse, and gnaw a hole through the door. But then he suddenly
remembered the cat, who, though he had decided not to eat
her, might take this opportunity of eating him. So he thought it
advisable to wait till she was fast asleep, which did not happen for
a good while. At length, quite tired with walking about, Pussy
turned round on her tail six times, curled down in a corner, and fell
fast asleep.
Immediately Brownie changed himself into the smallest mouse
possible; and, taking care not to make the least noise, gnawed a hole
in the door, and squeezed himself through--immediately turning
into his proper shape again, for fear of accidents.
The kitchen fire was at its last glimmer; but it showed a better
supper than even last night, for the Cook had had friends with her,
a brother and two cousins, and they had been exceedingly merry.
The food they had left behind was enough for three Brownies at least,
but this one managed to eat it all up. Only once, in trying to cut
a great slice of beef, he let the carving knife and fork fall with
such a clatter, that Tiny the terrier, who was tied up at the foot of
the stairs, began to bark furiously. However, he brought her her
puppy, which had been left in a basket in a corner of the kitchen,
and so succeeded in quieting her.
After that he enjoyed himself amazingly, and made more marks
than ever on the white tablecloth--for he began jumping about
like a pea on a trencher, in order to make his particularly large
supper agree with him.
Then, in the absence of the cat, he teased the puppy for an hour
or two, till, hearing the clock strike five, he thought it as well to
turn into a mouse again, and creep back cautiously into his cellar.
He was only just in time, for Muff opened one eye, and was just
going to pounce upon him, when he changed himself back into a
Brownie. She was so startled that she bounded away, her tail growing
into twice its natural size, and her eyes gleaming like round
green globes. But Brownie only said, "Ha, ha, ho!" and walked
deliberately into his hole.
When Cook came downstairs and saw that the same thing had
happened again--that the supper was all eaten, and the tablecloth
blacker than ever with extraordinary footmarks, she was greatly
puzzled. Who could have done it all? Not the cat, who came mewing
out of the coal cellar the minute she unlocked the door. Possibly
a rat--but then would a rat have come within reach of Tiny?
"It must have been Tiny herself, or her puppy," which just came
rolling out of its basket over Cook's feet. "You little wretch! You
and your mother are the greatest nuisance imaginable. I'll punish
you!"
And quite forgetting that Tiny had been safely tied up all night,
and that her poor little puppy was so fat and helpless it could
scarcely stand on its legs--and so was unlikely to jump on chairs
and tables, she gave them both such a thrashing that they ran howling
together out of the kitchen door, where the kind little kitchen maid
took them up in her arms.
"You ought to have beaten the Brownie, if you could catch him,"
said she in a whisper. "He'll do it again and again, you'll see, for
he can't bear an untidy kitchen. You'd better do as poor old Cook
did, and clear the supper things away, and put the odds and ends
safe in the larder; also," she added mysteriously, "if I were you,
I'd put a bowl of milk behind the coal-cellar door."
"Nonsense!" answered the young Cook and flounced away. But
afterwards she thought better of it, and did as she was advised,
grumbling all the time, but doing it.
Next morning, the milk was gone! Perhaps Brownie had drunk
it up, anyhow nobody could say that he hadn't. As for the supper,
Cook having safely laid it on the shelves of the larder, nobody
touched it. And the tablecloth, which was wrapped up tidily and
put in the dresser drawer, came out as clean as ever, with not a
single black footmark upon it. No mischief being done, the cat
and the dog both escaped beating, and Brownie played no more
tricks with anybody--till the next time.
THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER; OR, THE BLACK BROTHERS
John Ruskin
CHAPTER I
HOW THE AGRICULTURAL SYSTEM OF THE BLACK BROTHERS WAS INTERFERED
WITH BY SOUTHWEST WIND, ESQUIRE
In a secluded and mountainous part of Stiria there was in old
time a valley of the most surprising and luxuriant fertility. It was
surrounded on all sides by steep and rocky mountains, rising into
peaks which were always covered with snow, and from which a
number of torrents descended in constant cataracts. One of these
fell westward over the face of a crag so high, that, when the sun had
set to everything else, and all below was darkness, his beams still
shone full upon this waterfall, so that it looked like a shower of
gold. It was, therefore, called by the people of the neighborhood,
the Golden River. It was strange that none of these streams fell
into the valley itself. They all descended on the other side of the
mountains, and wound away through broad plains and by populous
cities. But the clouds were drawn so constantly to the snowy hills,
and rested so softly in the circular hollow, that in time of drought
and heat, when all the country round was burnt up, there was still
rain in the little valley; and its crops were so heavy and its hay so
high, and its apples so red, and its grapes so blue, and its wine so
rich, and its honey so sweet, that it was a marvel to every one who
beheld it, and was commonly called the Treasure Valley.
The whole of this little valley belonged to three brothers called
Schwartz, Hans, and Gluck. Schwartz and Hans, the two elder
brothers, were very ugly men, with overhanging eyebrows and small
dull eyes, which were always half shut, so that you could not see
into _them_, and always fancied they saw very far into _you_.
They lived by farming the Treasure Valley, and very good farmers they
were. They killed everything that did not pay for its eating. They
shot the blackbirds, because they pecked the fruit; and killed the
hedgehogs, lest they should suck the cows; they poisoned the crickets
for eating the crumbs in the kitchen; and smothered the cicadas,
which used to sing all summer in the lime trees. They worked their
servants without any wages, till they would not work any more, and
then quarreled with them, and turned them out of doors without
paying them. It would have been very odd if with such a farm and
such a system of farming they hadn't got very rich; and very rich
they _did_ get. They generally contrived to keep their corn by them
till it was very dear, and then sell it for twice its value; they had
heaps of gold lying about on their floors, yet it was never known that
they had given so much as a penny or a crust in charity; they never
went to mass; grumbled perpetually at paying tithes; and were, in
a word, of so cruel and grinding a temper, as to receive from all those
with whom they had any dealings, the nickname of the "Black
Brothers."
The youngest brother, Gluck, was as completely opposed, in both
appearance and character, to his seniors as could possibly be
imagined or desired. He was not above twelve years old, fair, blue-eyed,
and kind in temper to every living thing. He did not, of
course, agree particularly well with his brothers, or rather, they
did not agree with _him_. He was usually appointed to the honorable
office of turnspit, when there was anything to roast, which was not
often; for, to do the brothers justice, they were hardly less sparing
upon themselves than upon other people. At other times he used
to clean the shoes, floors, and sometimes the plates, occasionally
getting what was left on them, by way of encouragement, and a
wholesome quantity of dry blows, by way of education.
Things went on in this manner for a long time. At last came
a very wet summer, and everything went wrong in the country around.
The hay had hardly been got in when the haystacks were floated
bodily down to the sea by an inundation; the vines were cut to pieces
with the hail; the corn was all killed by a black blight; only in
the Treasure Valley, as usual, all was safe. As it had rain when
there was rain nowhere else, so it had sun when there was sun nowhere
else. Everybody came to buy corn at the farm, and went away pouring
maledictions on the Black Brothers. They asked what they liked, and
got it, except from the poor people, who could only beg, and several
of whom were starved at their very door without the slightest regard
or notice.
It was drawing towards Winter, and very cold weather, when
one day the two elder brothers had gone out with their usual warning
to little Gluck, who was left to mind the roast, that he was to let
nobody in and give nothing out. Gluck sat down quite close to the
fire, for it was raining very hard, and the kitchen walls were by
no means dry or comfortable looking. He turned and turned, and
the roast got nice and brown. "What a pity," thought Gluck, "my
brothers never ask anybody to dinner. I'm sure when they have
such a nice piece of mutton as this, and nobody else has got so much
as a piece of dry bread, it would do their hearts good to have somebody
to eat it with them."
Just as he spoke there came a double knock at the house door, yet
heavy and dull, as though the knocker had been tied up--more like
a puff than a knock.
"It must be the wind," said Gluck; "nobody else would venture to
knock double knocks at our door."
No; it wasn't the wind: there it came again very hard; and what
was particularly astounding, the knocker seemed to be in a hurry,
and not to be in the least afraid of the consequences. Gluck
went to the window, opened it, and put his head out to see who it
was.
It was the most extraordinary-looking little gentleman he had
ever seen in his life. He had a very large nose, slightly
brass-colored; his cheeks were very round and very red, and might have
warranted a supposition that he had been blowing a refractory fire
for the last eight-and-forty hours; his eyes twinkled merrily through
long silky eyelashes, his mustaches curled twice round like a corkscrew
on each side of his mouth, and his hair, of a curious mixed
pepper-and-salt-color, descended far over his shoulders. He was
about four-feet-six in height, and wore a conical pointed cap of nearly
the same altitude, decorated with a black feather some three feet
long. His doublet was prolonged behind into something resembling
a violent exaggeration of what is now termed a "swallowtail," but
was much obscured by the swelling folds of an enormous black,
glossy-looking cloak, which must have been very much too long in
calm weather, as the wind, whistling round the old house, carried
it clear out from the wearer's shoulders to about four times his own
length.
Gluck was so perfectly paralyzed by the singular appearance of
his visitor that he remained fixed without uttering a word, until the
old gentleman, having performed another and a more energetic concerto
on the knocker, turned round to look after his fly-away cloak.
In so doing he caught sight of Gluck's little yellow head jammed in
the window, with his mouth and eyes very wide-open indeed.
"Hollo!" said the little gentleman, "that's not the way to answer
the door: I'm wet, let me in."
To do the little gentleman justice, he _was_ wet. His feather hung
down between his legs like a beaten puppy's tail, dripping like an
umbrella; and from the ends of his mustaches the water was running
into his waistcoat pockets, and out again like a mill stream.
"I beg pardon, sir," said Gluck, "I'm very sorry, but I really
can't."
"Can't what?" said the old gentleman.
"I can't let you in, sir,--I can't indeed; my brothers would beat
me to death, sir, if I thought of such a thing. What do you want,
sir?"
"Want?" said the old gentleman, petulantly. "I want fire and
shelter; and there's your great fire there, blazing, crackling, and
dancing on the walls, with nobody to feel it. Let me in, I say; I only
want to warm myself."
Gluck had had his head so long out of the window by this time
that he began to feel it was really unpleasantly cold, and when he
turned and saw the beautiful fire rustling and roaring, and throwing
long, bright tongues up the chimney, as if it were licking its chops
at the savory smell of the leg of mutton, his heart melted within him
that it should be burning away for nothing. "He does look _very_
wet," said little Gluck; "I'll just let him in for a quarter of an hour."
Round he went to the door and opened it; and as the little gentleman
walked in there came a gust of wind through the house that made the
old chimneys totter.
"That's a good boy," said the little gentleman. "Never mind
your brothers. I'll talk to them."
"Pray, sir, don't do any such thing," said Gluck. "I can't let
you stay till they come: they'd be the death of me."
"Dear me," said the old gentleman, "I'm very sorry to hear that.
How long may I stay?"
"Only till the mutton's done, sir," replied Gluck, "and it's very
brown."
Then the old gentleman walked into the kitchen, and sat himself
down on the hob, with the top of his cap accommodated up the chimney,
for it was a great deal too high for the roof.
"You'll soon dry there, sir," said Gluck, and sat down again
to turn the mutton. But the old gentleman did _not_ dry there, but
went on drip, drip, dripping among the cinders, and the fire fizzed,
and sputtered, and began to look very black and uncomfortable.
Never was such a cloak; every fold in it ran like a gutter.
"I beg pardon, sir," said Gluck at length, after watching the
water spreading in long, quicksilver-like streams over the floor for a
quarter of an hour; "mayn't I take your cloak?"
"No, thank you," said the old gentleman.
"Your cap, sir?"
"I am all right, thank you," said the old gentleman, rather
gruffly.
"But,--sir,--I'm very sorry," said Gluck, hesitatingly; "but--really,
sir,--you're--putting the fire out."
"It'll take longer to do the mutton, then," replied his visitor
dryly.
Gluck was very much puzzled by the behavior of his guest; it was
such a strange mixture of coolness and humility. He turned away
at the string meditatively for another five minutes.
"That mutton looks very nice," said the old gentleman at length.
"Can't you give me a little bit?"
"Impossible, sir," said Gluck.
"I'm very hungry," continued the old gentleman; "I've had nothing
to eat yesterday nor today. They surely couldn't miss a bit
from the knuckle!"
He spoke in so very melancholy a tone that it quite melted Gluck's
heart. "They promised me one slice today, sir," said he; "I can
give you that, but not a bit more."
"That's a good boy," said the old gentleman again.
Then Gluck warmed a plate, and sharpened a knife. "I don't
care if I do get beaten for it." thought he. Just as he had cut a large
slice out of the mutton, there came a tremendous rap at the door.
The old gentleman jumped off the hob, as if it had suddenly
become inconveniently warm. Gluck fitted the slice into the
mutton again, with desperate efforts at exactitude, and ran to open
the door.
"What did you keep us waiting in the rain for?" said Schwartz, as
he walked in, throwing his umbrella in Gluck's face. "Ay! what
for, indeed, you little vagabond?" said Hans, administering an
educational box on the ear, as he followed his brother into the
kitchen.
"Bless my soul!" said Schwartz, when he opened the door.
"Amen," said the little gentleman, who had taken his cap off, and
was standing in the middle of the kitchen, bowing with the utmost
possible velocity.
"Who's that?" said Schwartz, catching up a rolling-pin, and turning
to Gluck with a fierce frown.
"I don't know, indeed, brother," said Gluck, in great terror.
"How did he get in?" roared Schwartz.
"My dear brother," said Gluck, deprecatingly, "he was so
_very_ wet!"
The rolling-pin was descending on Gluck's head; but at the instant
the old gentleman interposed his conical cap, on which it
crashed with a shock that shook the water out of it all over the room.
What was very odd, the rolling-pin no sooner touched the cap than
it flew out of Schwartz's hand, spinning like a straw in a high wind,
and fell into the corner at the farther end of the room.
"Who are you, sir?" demanded Schwartz, turning upon him.
"What's your business?" snarled Hans.
"I'm a poor old man, sir," the little gentleman began very
modestly, "and I saw your fire through the window, and begged
shelter for a quarter of an hour."
"Have the goodness to walk out again, then," said Schwartz.
"We've quite enough water in our kitchen without making it a
drying-house."
"It is a cold day to turn an old man out in, sir; look at my gray
hairs." They hung down to his shoulders, as I told you before.
"Ay!" said Hans, "there are enough of them to keep you warm.
Walk!"
"I'm very, very hungry, sir; couldn't you spare me a bit of bread
before I go?"
"Bread, indeed!" said Schwartz; "do you suppose we've nothing
to do with our bread but to give it to such red-nosed fellows as
you?"
"Why don't you sell your feather?" said Hans, sneeringly.
"Out with you!"
"A little bit," said the old gentleman.
"Be off!" said Schwartz.
"Pray, gentlemen--"
"Off, and be hanged!" cried Hans, seizing him by the collar.
But he had no sooner touched the old gentleman's collar, than
away he went after the rolling-pin, spinning round and round, till
he fell into the corner on the top of it. Then Schwartz was very
angry, and ran at the old gentleman to turn him out; but he also
had hardly touched him, when away he went after Hans and the
rolling-pin, and hit his head against the wall as he tumbled into the
corner. And so there they lay, all three.
Then the old gentleman spun himself round with velocity in the
opposite direction; continued to spin until his long cloak was all
wound neatly about him: clapped his cap on his head, very much on
one side (for it could not stand upright without going through the
ceiling), gave an additional twist to his corkscrew mustaches, and
replied with perfect coolness: "Gentlemen, I wish you a very
good morning. At twelve o'clock tonight I'll call again; after such
a refusal of hospitality as I have just experienced, you will not be
surprised if that visit is the last I ever pay you."
"If ever I catch you here again," muttered Schwartz, coming,
half frightened, out of the corner--but, before he could finish his
sentence, the old gentleman had shut the house door behind him with
a great bang: and there drove past the window, at the same instant,
a wreath of ragged cloud, that whirled and rolled away down the
valley in all manner of shapes; turning over and over in the air,
and melting away at last in a gush of rain.
"A very pretty business, indeed, Mr. Gluck!" said Schwartz.
"Dish the mutton, sir. If ever I catch you at such a trick again
--bless me, why, the mutton's been cut!"
"You promised me one slice, brother, you know," said Gluck.
"Oh! and you were cutting it hot, I suppose, and going to catch
all the gravy. It'll be long before I promise you such a thing
again. Leave the room, sir; and have the kindness to wait in the
coal cellar till I call you."
Gluck left the room, melancholy enough. The brothers ate as
much mutton as they could, locked the rest into the cupboard, and
proceeded to get very drunk after dinner.
Such a night as it was! Howling wind, and rushing rain, without
intermission. The brothers had just sense enough left to put up
all the shutters, and double-bar the door, before they went to bed.
They usually slept in the same room. As the clock struck twelve,
they were both awakened by a tremendous crash. Their door burst
open with a violence that shook the house from top to bottom.
"What's that?" cried Schwartz, starting up in his bed.
"Only I," said the little gentleman.
The two brothers sat up on their bolster, and stared into the
darkness. The room was full of water; and by a misty moonbeam,
which found its way through a hole in the shutter, they could see in
the midst of it an enormous foam globe, spinning round, and bobbing
up and down like a cork, on which, as on a most luxurious
cushion, reclined the little old gentleman, cap and all. There
was plenty of room for it now, for the roof was off.
"Sorry to incommode you," said their visitor, ironically. "I'm
afraid your beds are dampish; perhaps you had better go to your
brother's room: I've left the ceiling on there."
They required no second admonition, but rushed into Gluck's
room, wet through, and in an agony of terror.
"You'll find my card on the kitchen table," the old gentleman
called after them. "Remember, the _last_ visit."
"Pray Heaven it may!" said Schwartz, shuddering. And the
foam globe disappeared.
Dawn came at last, and the two brothers looked out of Gluck's
little window in the morning. The Treasure Valley was one mass
of ruin and desolation. The inundation had swept away trees,
crops, and cattle, and left in their stead a waste of red sand and
gray mud. The two brothers crept shivering and horror-struck into
the kitchen. The water had gutted the whole first floor; corn, money,
almost every movable thing had been swept away, and there was
left only a small white card on the kitchen table. On it, in large,
breezy, long-legged letters, were engraved the words:
_SOUTHWEST WIND, ESQUIRE_