A tune to the daylight humming;
And away she went o'er the sparkling dew,
Where the grass was green, the violet blue,
And the gold of the sun was coming.
And what first tempted the roving Bee,
Was a head of the crimson clover.
"I've found a treasure betimes!" said she,
"And perhaps a greater I might not see,
If I travelled the field all over.
"My beautiful Clover, so round and red,
There is not a thing in twenty,
That lifts this morning so sweet a head
Above its leaves, and its earthy bed,
With so many horns of plenty!"
The flow'rets were thick which the Clover crowned,
As the plumes in the helm of Hector;
And each had a cell that was deep and round,
Yet it would not impart, as the Bee soon found,
One drop of its precious nectar.
She cast in her eye where the honey lay,
And her pipe she began to measure;
But she saw at once it was clear as day,
That it would not go down one half the way
To the place of the envied treasure.[1]
Said she, in a pet, "One thing I know,"
As she rose, and in haste departed,
"It is not those of the _greatest show,_
To whom for a favor 'tis best to go,
Or that prove most generous-hearted!"
A fleecy flock came into the field;
When one of its members followed
The scent of the clover, till between
Her nibbling teeth its head was seen,
And then in a moment swallowed.
"Ha, ha!" said the Bee, as the Clover died,
"Her fortune's smile was fickle!
And now I can get my wants supplied
By a homely flower, with a rough outside.
And even with scale and prickle!"
Then she flew to one, that, by man and beast
Was shunned for its stinging bristle;
But it injured not the Bee in the least;
And she filled her pocket, and had a feast,
From the bloom of the purple Thistle.
The generous Thistle's life was spared
In the home where the Bee first found her,
Till she grew so old she was hoary-haired,
And her snow-white locks with the silk compared,
As they shone where the sun beamed round her.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: The clover-floret is so small and deep in its tube,
that the bee cannot reach the honey at the bottom.]
=Poor Old Paul=
Poor old Paul! he has lost a foot;
And see him go hobbling along,
With the stump laced up in that clumsy boot,
Before the gathering throng!
And now, as he has to pass so many,
And suffer the gaze of all,
If each would only bestow a penny,
'Twere something for poor old Paul.
His cheek is wan, and his garb is thin;
His eye is sunken and dim;
He looks as if the winter had been
Making sad work with him.
While he is trying to hide the tatter,
Mark how his looks will fall!
Nobody needs to ask the matter
With poor, old, hungry Paul.
All that he has in his dingy sack
Is morsels of bread and meat,--
The leavings, to burden his aged back,
Which others refused to eat.
So now I am sure, you will all be willing
To part with a sum so small
As each will spare, who makes up a shilling
To comfort him--Poor old Paul!
=The Sea-Eagle's Fall=
An Eagle, on his towering wing,
Hung o'er the summer sea;
And ne'er did airy, feathered king
Look prouder there than he.
He spied the finny tribes below,
Amid the limpid brine;
And felt it now was time to know
Whereon he was to dine.
He saw a noble, shining fish
So near the surface swim,
He felt at once a hungry wish
To make a feast of him.
Then straight he took his downward course;
A sudden plunge he gave;
And, pouncing, seized, with murderous force,
His tempter in the wave.
He struck his talons firm and deep,
Within the slippery prize,
In hope his ruffian grasp to keep,
And high and dry to rise.
But ah! it was a fatal stoop,
As ever monarch made;
And, for that rash--that cruel swoop,
He soon most dearly paid!
The fish had too much gravity
To yield to this attack.
His feet the eagle could not free
From off the scaly back.
He'd seized on one too strong and great;
His mastery now was gone!
And on, by that preponderant weight,
And downward, he was drawn.
Nor found he here the element
Where he could move with grace;
And flap, and dash, his pinions went,
In ocean's wrinkled face.
They could not bring his talons out,
His forfeit life to save;
And planted thus, he writhed about
Upon his gaping grave.
He raised his head, and gave a shriek,
To bid adieu to light:
The water bubbled in his beak--
He sank from human sight!
The children of the sea came round,
The foreigner to view.
To see an airy monarch drowned,
To them was something new
Some gave a quick, astonished look,
And darted swift away;
While some his parting plumage shook,
And nibbled him for prey.
O! who that saw that bird at noon
So high and proudly soar,
Could think how awkwardly--how soon,
He'd fall to rise no more?
Though glory, majesty, and pride
Were his an hour ago,
Deprived of all, that eagle died,
For stooping once too low!
Now, have you ever known or heard
Of biped, from his sphere
Descending, like that silly bird
To buy a fish so dear?
=The Two Thieves=
A lady, they called her Miss Mouse,
In a slate-colored dress, like a Quaker,
Once lived in a snug little house,
Of which she herself was the maker.
There lived in another close by,
A dame, whom they called Lady Kitty;
But that she was stationed so nigh,
Miss Mouse often thought a great pity.
For she, though so soberly clad,
And never inclined to ill-speaking,
Had often a fancy to gad,
Or more than her own might be seeking.
She did not then like to be scanned,
Or questioned respecting her duty,
When some little theft she had planned,
Or seen coming home with her booty.
So modest she was, and so shy,
Although an inveterate sinner,
She'd nip out her part of the pie
Before it was brought up to dinner.
She held that 'twas folly to ask
For what her own wits would allow her;
And, making her way through the cask,
She helped herself well to the flour.
The candles she scraped to their wicks;
And, mischievous in her invention,
Would do many more naughty tricks,
Which I, as her friend, cannot mention.
Kit, too, had her living to make,
And yet, she was so above toiling,
She'd sooner attack the beef-steak,
When the cook had prepared it for broiling.
And so, near a dish of warm toast,
She often most patiently lingered,
To seize her first chance; yet, could boast
That none ever called her _light-fingered_.
But mending, or minding herself,
She thought would be quite too much labor,
And so peeped about on the shelf,
To spy out the faults of her neighbor.
For Mouse loved to promenade there,
While Kit would watch close to waylay her;
And once, in the midst of her fare,
Up bounded Miss Kitty to slay her!
But this was as luckless a jump
As ever Kit made, with the clatter
Of knife, skimmer, spoon, and a thump,
Which she got, as she threw down the platter.
While Mouse glided under a dish.
Escaping the mortal disaster,
Miss Kitty turned off to a fish,
The breakfast elect for her master.
Said she to herself, "Tis clear gain,--
This rarity, fresh from the water,
Will save my white mittens the stain--
And me from the trouble of slaughter!"
But her racket, she found to her cost,
The plot had most fatally thickened;
And all hope of mercy was lost,
As Jack's coming footstep was quickened.
He seized her, and binding her fast.
Declared he could never forgive her;
So Kitty was sentenced and cast,
With a stone at her neck, in the river!
But Mouse still continued to thieve;
And often, alone in her dwelling,
Would silently laugh in her sleeve,
At the scene in the tale I've been telling--
Till once, by a fatal mishap,
The little unfortunate rover
Perceived herself close in a trap,
And felt that her race was now over.
She knew she must leave all behind;
And thus, in the midst of her terrors,
As every thing rushed to her mind,
Began her confession of errors:--
"You'll find, on the word of a Mouse,
Whom hope has for ever forsaken,
The following things in my house,
Which I have unlawfully taken:
"A cork, that was soaked in the beer,
Which I nibbled until I was merry;
Some kernels of corn from the ear,
The skin and the stone of a cherry:--
"Some hemp-seed I took from the bird,
And found most deliriously tasted,
While safe in my covert, I heard
Its owner complain that 'twas wasted:--
"You'll find a few cucumber seeds,
Which I thought, if they could but be hollowed,
Would answer to string out for beads;
So the inside of all I have swallowed:--
"A few crumbs of biscuit and cheese,
Which I thought might a long time supply me
With luncheon--some rice and split peas,
Which seemed well prepared to keep by me:--
"A cluster of curls which I stole
At night from a young lady's toilet,
And made me a bed of it whole,
As tearing it open would spoil it;--
"And as, in a long summer day
I'd time both or reading and spelling,
I gnawed up the whole of a play,
And carried it home to my dwelling.
"I wish you'd set fire to my place;
And pray you at once to despatch me,
That none of my enemy's race,
In the form of Miss Kitty, may catch me!"
Disgrace thus will follow on vice,
Although for a while it be hidden;
When children, or kittens, or mice,
Will do what they know is forbidden.
=Jemmy String=
I knew a little heedless boy,
A child that seldom cared,
If he could get his cake and toy,
How other matters fared.
He always bore upon his foot
A signal of the thing,
For which, on him his playmates put
The name of Jemmy String.
No malice in his heart was there;
He had no fault beside,
So great as that of wanting care.
To keep his shoe-strings tied.
You'd often see him on the run,
To chase the geese about,
While both his shoe-ties were undone,
With one end slipping out.
He'd tread on one, then down he'd go,
And all around would ring
With bitter cries, and sounds of woe,
That came from Jemmy String.
And oft, by such a sad mishap,
Would Jemmy catch a hurt;
The muddy pool would catch his cap,
His clothes would catch the dirt!
Then home he'd hasten through the street,
To tell about his fall;
While, on his little sloven feet,
The cause was plain to all.
For while he shook his aching hand,
Complaining of the bruise,
The strings were trailing through the sand
From both his loosened shoes.
One day, his father thought a ride
Would do his children good;
But Jemmy's shoe-strings were untied,
And on the stairs he stood.
In hastening down to take his place
Upon the carriage seat,
Poor Jemmy lost his joyous face;
Nor could he keep his feet.
The dragging string had made him trip,
And bump! bump! went his head;--
The teeth had struck and cut his lip,
And tears and blood were shed.
His aching wounds he meekly bore;
But with a swelling heart
He heard the carriage from the door,
With all but him, depart.
This grievous lesson taught him care,
And gave his mind a spring;
For he resolved no more to bear
The name of JEMMY STRING!
=The Caterpillar=
"Don't kill me!" Caterpillar said,
As Charles had raised his heel
Upon the humble worm to tread,
As though it could not feel.
"Don't kill me! and I'll crawl away
To hide awhile, and try
To come and look, another day,
More pleasing to your eye.
"I know I'm now among the things
Uncomely to your sight;
But by and by on splendid wings
You'll see me high and light!
"And then, perhaps, you may be glad
To watch me on the flower;
And that you spared the worm you had
To-day within your power!"
Then Caterpillar went and hid
In some secreted place,
Where none could look on what he did
To change his form and face.
And by and by, when Charles had quite
Forgotten what I've told,
A Butterfly appeared in sight,
Most beauteous to behold.
His shining wings were trimmed with gold,
And many a brilliant dye
Was laid upon their velvet fold,
To charm the gazing eye!
Then, near as prudence would allow,
To Charles's ear he drew
And said, "You may not know me, now
My form and name are new!
"But I'm the worm that once you raised
Your ready foot to kill!
For sparing me, I long have praised,
And love and praise you still.
"The lowest reptile at your feet,
When power is not abused,
May prove the fruit of mercy sweet,
By being kindly used!"
=The Mocking Bird=
A Mocking Bird was he,
In a bushy, blooming tree,
Imbosomed by the foliage and flower.
And there he sat and sang,
Till all around him rang,
With sounds, from out the merry mimic's bower.
The little satirist
Piped, chattered, shrieked, and hissed;
He then would moan, and whistle, quack, and caw;
Then, carol, drawl, and croak,
As if he'd pass a joke
On every other winged one he saw.
Together he would catch
A gay and plaintive snatch,
And mingle notes of half the feathered throng.
For well the mocker knew,
Of every thing that flew,
To imitate the manner and the song.
The other birds drew near,
And paused awhile to hear
How well he gave their voices and their airs.
And some became amused;
While some, disturbed, refused
To own the sounds that others said were theirs.
The sensitive were shocked,
To find their honors mocked
By one so pert and voluble as he;
They knew not if 't was done
In earnest or in fun;
And fluttered off in silence from the tree.
The silliest grew vain,
To think a song or strain
Of theirs, however weak, or loud, or hoarse,
Was worthy to be heard
Repeated by the bird;
For of his wit they could not feel the force.
The charitable said,
"Poor fellow! if his head
Is turned, or cracked, or has no talent left;
But feels the want of powers,
And plumes itself from ours,
Why, we shall not be losers by the theft."
The haughty said, "He thus.
It seems, would mimic us,
And steal our songs, to pass them for his own!
But if he only quotes
In honor of our notes,
We then were quite as honored, let alone."
The wisest said, "If foe
Or friend, we still may know
By him, wherein our greatest failing lies.
So, let us not be moved,
Since first to be improved
By every thing, becomes the truly wise."
=The Silk-Worm's Will=
On a plain rush-hurdle a silk-worm lay,
When a proud young princess came that way.
The haughty child of a human king
Threw a sidelong glance at the humble thing,
That received with a silent gratitude
From the mulberry-leaf her simple food;
And shrunk, half scorn, and half disgust,
Away from her sister child of the dust;
Declaring she never yet could see
Why a reptile form like this should be;--
And that she was not made with nerves so firm,
As calmly to stand by a _crawling worm_!
With mute forbearance the silk-worm took
The taunting words and the spurning look.
Alike a stranger to self and pride,
She'd no disquiet from aught beside;
And lived of a meekness and peace possest
Which these debar from the human breast.
She only wished, for the harsh abuse,
To find some way to become of use
To the haughty daughter of lordly man;
And thus did she lay her noble plan
To teach her wisdom, and make it plain
That the humble worm was not made in vain;--
A plan so generous, deep and high,
That to carry it out, she must even die!
"No more," said she, "will I drink or eat!
I'll spin and weave me a winding-sheet,
To wrap me up from the sun's clear light,
And hide my form from her wounded sight.
In secret then, till my end draws nigh,
I will toil for her; and when I die,
I'll leave behind, as a farewell boon
To the proud young princess, my whole cocoon,
To be reeled, and wove to a shining lace,
And hung in a veil o'er her scornful face!
And when she can calmly draw her breath
Through the very threads that have caused my death;
When she finds at length, she has nerves so firm,
As to wear the shroud of a _crawling worm_,
May she bear in mind that she walks with pride
In the winding-sheet where the silk-worm died!"
=Dame Biddy=
Dame Biddy abode in a coop,
Because it so chanced that dame Biddy
Had round her a family group
Of chicks, young, and helpless, and giddy.
And when she had freedom to roam,
She fancied the life of a ranger;
And led off her brood, far from home,
To fall into mischief or danger.
She'd trail through the grass to be mown,
And call all her children to follow;
And scratch up the seeds that were sown,
Then, lie in their places and wallow.
She'd go where the corn in the hill,
Its first little blade had been shooting,
And try, by the strength of her bill,
To learn if the kernel was rooting.
And when she went out on a walk
Of pleasure, through thicket and brambles,
The covetous eye of a Hawk
Delighted in marking her rambles.
"I spy," to himself he would say,
"A prize of which I'll be the winner!"
So down would he pounce on his prey,
And bear off a chicken for dinner.
The poor frighted matron, that heard
The cry of her youngling in dying,
Would scream at the merciless bird,
That high with his booty was flying.
But shrieks could not ease her distress,
Nor grief her lost darling recover.
She now had a chicken the less,
For acting the part of a rover.
And there lay the feathers, all torn.
And flying one way and another,
That still her dear child might have worn,
Had she been more wise as a mother.
Her owner then thought he must teach
Dame Biddy a little subjection;
And cooped her up, out of the reach
Of hawking, with time for reflection.
And, throwing a net o'er a pile
Of brush-wood that near her was lying,
He hoped to its meshes to wile
The fowler, that o'er her was flying.
For Hawk, not forgetting his fare,
And having a taste to renew it,
Sailed round near the coop, high in air,
With cruel intention, to view it.
The owner then said, "Master Hawk,
If you love my chickens so dearly,
Come down to my yard for a walk,
That you may address them more nearly."
But, "No," thought the sharp-taloned foe
Of Biddy, "my circuit is higher!
If I to his premises go.
'Twill be when I see he's not nigh her."
The Farmer strewd barley, and toled
The chickens the brush to run under,
And left them, while Hawk growing bold,
Thus tempted, came near for his plunder.
As closer and closer he drew,
With appetite stronger and stronger,
He found he'd but one thing to do,
And plunged, to defer it no longer.
But now he had come to a pause,
At once in the net-work entangled,
While through it his head and his claws
In hopeless vacuity dangled.
The chicks saw him hang overhead,
Where they for their barley had huddled;
And all in a flutter they fled,
And soon through the coop holes had scuddled.
The Farmer came out to his snare,
He saw the bold captive was in it;
And said, "If this play be unfair,
Remember, I did not begin it!"
He then put a cork on his beak,
The airy assassin disarming,
Unspurred him, and rendered him weak,
By blunting each talent for harming.
And into the coop he was thrown:
The chickens hid under their mother,
For he, by his feathers was known
As he, who had murdered their brother
Dame Biddy, beholding his plight,
Determined to show him no quarter,
In action gave vent to her spite;
As motherly tenderness taught her.
She shouted, and blustered; and then
Attacked the poor captive unfriended;
And you, (who have witnessed a hen
In anger,) may guess how it ended.
She made him a touching address,
If pecking and scratching could do it;
Till sinking in silent distress,
He perished before she got through it.
We would not, however, convey
A thought like approving the fury,
That gave, in this summary way,
Punition without judge or jury.
Whenever 'tis given, it tends
To lessen the angry bestower.
The _fowl_ that inflicts it descends--
But the _featherless biped_, still lower.
=Kit With the Rose=
A Rose-tree stood in the parlor,
When Kit came frolicking by;
So, up went her feet on the window-seat,
To a rose that had caught her eye.
She gave it a cuff, and it trembled
Beneath her ominous paw;
And while it shook, with a threatening look,
She coveted what she saw.
Thought she, "What a beautiful toss-ball!
If I could but give it a snap,
Now all are out, nor thinking about
Their rose, or the least mishap!"
She twisted the stem, and she twirled it;
And seizing the flower it bore,
With the timely aid of her teeth, she made
A leap to the parlor-floor.
Then over the carpet she tossed it,
All fresh in its morning bloom,
Till, shattered and rent, its leaves were sent
To every side of the room.
At length, with her sport grown weary,
She laid herself down to sun,
Inclining to doze, forgetting the rose,
And the mischief she'd slily done.
By and by her young mistress entered,
And uttered a piteous cry,
When she saw the fate of what had so late
Delighted her watchful eye.
But, where was the one who had spoiled it
Concealing his guilty face?
She had not a clue, whereby to pursue
The rogue to his lurking-place!
Thought Kit, "I'll keep still till it's over;
And none will suspect it was I."
For the puss awoke, when her mistress spoke;
And she well understood the cry.
But, mewing at length for her dinner,
Kit's mouth confessed the whole truth:
It opened so wide that her mistress espied
A rose-leaf pierced by her tooth!
Then, banished was Kit from the parlor,
All covered with shame! And those
Inclined, like her, in secret to err,
Should remember Kit with the Rose.
=The Captive Butterfly=
Good morning, pretty Butterfly!
How have you passed the night?
I hope you're gay and glad as I
To see the morning light.
But, little silent one, methinks
You're in a sober mood.
I wonder if you'd like to drink,
And what you take for food.
I shut you in my crystal cup,
To let your winglets rest.
And now I want to hold you up,
To see your velvet vest.
I want to count your tiny toes.
To find your breathing-place,
And touch the downy horn that grows
Each side your pretty face.
I'd like to see just how you're made,
With streaks and spots and rings;
And wish you'd show me how you played
Your shining, rainbow wings.
"'T was not," the little prisoner said,
"For want of food or drink,
That, while you slumbered on your bed,
I could not sleep a wink.
"My wings are pained for want of flight,
My lungs, for want of air.
In bitterness I've passed the night,
And meet the morning's glare.
"When looking through my prison wall,
So close, and yet so clear,
I see there's freedom there for all,
While I'm a captive here.
"I've stood upon my feeble feet
Until they're full of pain.
I know that liberty is sweet,
Which I cannot regain.
"Do I deserve a fate like this,
Who've ever acted well,
Since first I left the chrysalis,
And fluttered from my shell?
"I've never injured fruit, or flower,
Or man, or bird, or beast;
And such a one should have the power
Of going free, at least.
"And now, if you will let me quit
My prison-house, the cup,
I'll show you how I sport and flit,
And make my wings go up!"
The lid was raised; the prisoner said,
"Behold my airy play!"
Then quickly on the wing he fled
Away, away, away!
From flower to flower he gayly flew,
To cool his aching feet,
And slake his thirst with morning dew,
Where liberty was sweet!
=The Dissatisfied Angler Boy=
I'm sorry they let me go down to the brook;
I'm sorry they gave me the line and the hook;
And wish I had staid at home with my book!
I'm sure 'twas no pleasure to see
That poor little harmless, suffering thing
Silently writhe at the end of the string,
Or to hold the pole, while I felt him swing
In torture,--and all for me!
'Twas a beautiful speckled and glossy trout;
And when from the water I drew him out,
On the grassy bank as he floundered about,
It made me shivering cold,
To think I had caused so much needless pain;
And I tried to relieve him, but all in vain:
O never, as long as I live, again
May I such a sight behold!
But, what would I give, once more to see
The brisk little swimmer alive and free,
And darting about as he used to be,
Unhurt, in his native brook!
'Tis strange that people can love to play,
By taking innocent lives away!
I wish I had stayed at home to-day
With sister, and read my book.
=The Stove and the Grate-Setter=
Old Winter is coming, to play off his tricks--
To make your ears tingle--your fingers to numb!
So I, with my trowel, new mortar and bricks,
To guard you against him, already am come.
An ounce of prevention in time, I have found,
Is worth pounds of remedy taken too late!
And proof that the sense of my maxim is sound,
Will shine where I fasten stove, furnace or grate.
The Summer leaves now whirling fast from the trees,
By Autumn's chill blast are tossed yellow and sere;
And soon, with the breath of his nostrils to freeze
Each thing he can puff at, will Winter be here!
But hardly he'll dare to steal in at the door,
Your elbows to bite with his keen cutting air,
And give you an ague, where I've been before,
To set the defence I to-day can prepare.
And when he comes blustering on from the north,
To give you blue faces, and shakes by the chin,
You'll find what the craft of the mason was worth,
As you from abroad to your parlor step in!
For all will around be so pleasant and warm,--
Your hearth bright and cheering--your coal in a glow;
You'll not heed the winds whistling up the rough storm
To sift o'er your dwellings its clouds full of snow!