PART II.

Away tripped little Mabel, With the wheaten cake so fine; With the new-made pat of butter, And the little flask of wine.

And long before the sun was hot, And morning mists had cleared, Beside the good old grandmother The willing child appeared.

And all her mother’s message She told with right good-will, How that the father was away, And the little child was ill.

And then she swept the hearth up clean, And then the table spread; And next she fed the dog and bird; And then she made the bed.

“And go now,” said the grandmother, “Ten paces down the dell, And bring in water for the day; Thou know’st the lady-well!”

The first time that good Mabel went, Nothing at all saw she, Except a bird--a sky-blue bird-- That sate upon a tree.

The next time that good Mabel went, There sate a lady bright Beside the well,--a lady small, All clothed in green and white.

A curtsey low made Mabel, And then she stooped to fill Her pitcher at the sparkling spring, But no drop did she spill.

“Thou art a handy maiden,” The fairy lady said; “Thou hast not spilled a drop, nor yet The fair spring troubled!

“And for this thing which thou hast done, Yet may’st not understand, I give to thee a better gift Than houses or than land.

“Thou shalt do well, whate’er thou dost, As thou hast done this day; Shalt have the will and power to please, And shalt be loved alway!”

Thus having said, she passed from sight, And nought could Mabel see, But the little bird, the sky-blue bird, Upon the leafy tree.

--“And now go,” said the grandmother, “And fetch in fagots dry; All in the neigbouring fir-wood, Beneath the trees they lie.”

Away went kind, good Mabel, Into the fir-wood near, Where all the ground was dry and brown, And the grass grew thin and sere.

She did not wander up and down, Nor yet a live branch pull, But steadily, of the fallen boughs She picked her apron full.

And when the wild-wood brownies Came sliding to her mind, She drove them thence, as she was told, With home-thoughts sweet and kind.

But all that while the brownies Within the fir-wood still, They watched her how she picked the wood, And strove to do no ill.

“And oh, but she is small and neat,” Said one, “’twere shame to spite A creature so demure and meek, A creature harmless quite!”

“Look only,” said another, “At her little gown of blue; At the kerchief pinned about her head, And at her little shoe!”

“Oh, but she is a comely child,” Said a third, “and we will lay A good-luck-penny in her path, A boon for her this day,-- Seeing she broke no living wood; No live thing did affray,”

With that the smallest penny, Of the finest silver ore, Upon the dry and slippery path, Lay Mabel’s feet before.

With joy she picked the penny up, The fairy penny good; And with her fagots dry and brown Went wondering from the wood.

“Now she has that,” said the brownies, “Let flax be ever so dear, Will buy her clothes of the very best For many and many a year!”

--“And go, now,” said the grandmother, “Since falling is the dew, Go down unto the lonesome glen, And milk the mother-ewe!”

All down into the lonesome glen, Through copses thick and wild; Through moist, rank grass, by trickling streams, Went on the willing child,

And when she came to lonesome glen, She kept beside the burn, And neither plucked the strawberry-flower, Nor broke the lady-fern.

And while she milked the mother-ewe Within the lonesome glen, She wished that little Amy Were strong and well again.

And soon as she had thought this thought, She heard a coming sound, As if a thousand fairy-folk Were gathering all around.

And then she heard a little voice, Shrill as the midge’s wing, That spake aloud, “a human child Is here--yet mark this thing!

“The lady-fern is all unbroke, The strawberry-flower unta’en! What shall be done for her, who still From mischief can refrain?”

“Give her a fairy-cake!” said one, “Grant her a wish!” said three; “The latest wish that she hath wished,” Said all, “whate’er it be!”

--Kind Mabel heard the words they spake, And from the lonesome glen, Unto the good old grandmother Went gladly back again.

Thus happened it to Mabel On that midsummer-day, And these three fairy-blessings She took with her away.

--’Tis good to make all duty sweet, To be alert and kind: ’Tis good, like little Mabel, To have a willing mind!

BIRDS AND FLOWERS

AND OTHER

COUNTRY THINGS.

THE STORMY PETEREL.

O stormy, stormy, Peterel, Come rest thee, bird, awhile; There is no storm, believe me, Anigh this summer isle.

Come, rest thy waving pinions; Alight thee down by me; And tell me somewhat of the lore Thou learnest on the sea!

Dost hear beneath the ocean The gathering tempest form? See’st thou afar the little cloud That grows into the storm?

How is it in the billowy depths-- Doth sea-weed heave and swell? And is a sound of coming woe Rung from each caverned shell?

Dost watch the stormy sunset In tempests of the west; And see the old moon riding slow With the new moon on her breast?

Dost mark the billows heaving Before the coming gale; And scream for joy of every sound That turns the seaman pale?

Are gusty tempests mirth to thee? Lov’st thou the lightning’s flash; The booming of the mountain waves-- The thunder’s deafening crash?

O stormy, stormy Peterel, Thou art a bird of woe! Yet would I thou could’st tell me half Of the misery thou dost know!

There was a ship went down last night,-- A good ship and a fair; A costly freight within her lay, And many a soul was there!

The night-black storm was over her, And ’neath the caverned wave: In all her strength she perished, Nor skill of man could save.

The cry of her great agony Went upward to the sky; She perished in her strength and pride, Nor human aid was nigh.

But thou, O stormy Peterel, Went’st screaming o’er the foam;-- Are there no tidings from that ship Which thou canst carry home?

Yes! He who raised the tempest up, Sustained each drooping one; And God was present in the storm, Though human aid was none!

THE POOR MAN’S GARDEN.

Ah yes, the poor man’s garden! It is great joy to me, This little, precious piece of ground Before his door to see!

The rich man has his gardeners,-- His gardeners young and old; He never takes a spade in hand, Nor worketh in the mould.

It is not with the poor man so,-- Wealth, servants, he has none; And all the work that’s done for him Must by himself be done.

All day upon some weary task He toileth with good will; And back he comes, at set of sun, His garden-plot to till.

The rich man in his garden walks, And ’neath his garden trees; Wrapped in a dream of other things, He seems to take his ease.

One moment he beholds his flowers, The next they are forgot: He eateth of his rarest fruits As though he ate them not.

It is not with the poor man so:-- He knows each inch of ground, And every single plant and flower That grows within its bound.

He knows where grow his wall-flowers, And when they will be out; His moss-rose, and convolulus That twines his pales about.

He knows his red sweet-williams; And the stocks that cost him dear,-- That well-set row of crimson stocks, For he bought the seed last year.

And though unto the rich man The cost of flowers is nought, A sixpence to a poor man Is toil, and care, and thought.

And here is his potatoe-bed, All well-grown, strong, and green; How could a rich man’s heart leap up At anything so mean!

But he, the poor man, sees his crop, And a thankful man is he, For he thinks all through the winter How rich his board will be.

And how his merry little ones Beside the fire will stand, Each with a large potatoe In a round and rosy hand.

The rich man has his wall-fruits, And his delicious vines; His fruit for every season! His melons and his pines.

The poor man has his gooseberries; His currants white and red; His apple and his damson tree, And a little strawberry-bed.

A happy man he thinks himself, A man that’s passing well,-- To have some fruit for the children, And some besides to sell.

Around the rich man’s trellissed bower Gay, costly creepers run; The poor man has his scarlet-beans To screen him from the sun.

And there before the little bench, O’ershadowed by the bower, Grow southern-wood and lemon-thyme, Sweet-pea and gilliflower;

And pinks and clove-carnations, Rich-scented side by side; And at each end a holly-hock, With an edge of London-pride.

And here comes the old grandmother, When her day’s work is done; And here they bring the sickly babe To cheer it in the sun.

And here, on Sabbath-mornings, The good man comes to get His Sunday nosegay, moss-rose bud, White pink, and mignonette.

And here, on Sabbath-evenings, Until the stars are out, With a little one in either hand, He walketh all about.

For though his garden-plot is small, Him doth it satisfy; For there’s no inch of all his ground That does not fill his eye.

It is not with the rich man thus; For though his grounds are wide, He looks beyond, and yet beyond, With soul unsatisfied.

Yes! in the poor man’s garden grow Far more than herbs and flowers;-- Kind thoughts, contentment, peace of mind, And joy for weary hours.

THE OAK-TREE.

Sing for the Oak-Tree, The monarch of the wood; Sing for the Oak-Tree, That groweth green and good; That groweth broad and branching Within the forest shade; That groweth now, and yet shall grow When we are lowly laid!

The Oak-Tree was an acorn once, And fell upon the earth; And sun and showers nourished it, And gave the Oak-Tree birth. The little sprouting Oak-Tree! Two leaves it had at first, Till sun and showers had nourished it, Then out the branches burst.

The little sapling Oak-Tree! Its root was like a thread, Till the kindly earth had nourished it, Then out it freely spread: On this side and on that side It grappled with the ground; And in the ancient, rifted rock Its firmest footing found.

The winds came, and the rain fell; The gusty tempest blew; All, all were friends to the Oak-Tree, And stronger yet it grew. The boy that saw the acorn fall, He feeble grew and grey; But the Oak was still a thriving tree, And strengthened every day!

Four centuries grows the Oak-Tree Nor doth its verdue fail; Its heart is like the iron-wood, Its bark like plated mail. Now, cut us down the Oak-Tree, The monarch of the wood; And of its timbers stout and strong We’ll build a vessel good!

The Oak-Tree of the forest Both east and west shall fly; And the blessings of a thousand lands Upon our ship shall lie! For she shall not be a man-of-war, Nor a pirate shall she be:-- But a noble, Christian merchant-ship To sail upon the sea.

Then sing for the Oak-Tree, The monarch of the wood; Sing for the Oak-Tree, That groweth green and good; That groweth broad and branching Within the forest shade; That groweth now, and yet shall grow, When we are lowly laid!

THE CAROLINA PARROT.

Parrots, with all their cleverness, are not capable of keeping up a dialogue; otherwise we might suppose something like the following to be in character with their humour and experience.

POLL’S MISTRESS.

I’ve heard of imp, I’ve heard of sprite; Of fays and fairies of the night; Of that renowned fiend Hobgoblin, Running, racing, jumping, hobbling; Of Puck, brimful of fun; also Of roguish Robin Goodfellow. I’ve seen a hearth where, as is told, Came Hobthrush in the days of old, To make the butter, mend the linen, And keep the housewife’s wheel a-spinning. I’ve heard of pigmies, pixies, lares, Shoirim, gemedim, and fairies:-- And, Parrot, on my honest word, I hardly think thou art a bird;-- Thou art so pixy, quaint and queer; Thou art not canny, Poll, I fear! Look at that impish leer of thine! List to thy scream, thy shout, thy whine, And none will doubt but thou must be A creature of the faery. Or tell me, Poll, art thou not kin To Jack o’ lanthern? Come, begin! Answer me, Poll, was’t ’mong the fairies Thou learnt thy many strange vagaries? Speak, pretty Poll!

POLL.

Well, I don’t care if I tell you all. You’ve got some company, I see; a short gentleman and a tall; Many ladies, too, altogether two or three dozen, I should not wonder if they are some of you uncles and cousins! Pray am I not a very fine bird, Green, and yellow, and scarlet?-- Upon my word! That man has a coat on like our Captain!

CAPTAIN.

Poll, how do you do, my dear? You look well; it’s fine living here!

POLL.

Ha, Captain, how do _you_ do?--Captain, your health, I say; Captain, I’ll have the pleasure of drinking your health to-day! ha! ha! ha! I’m very glad to see you!--You remember, perhaps, That wood in Carolina, the guns and all the traps;-- To be sure you do!--Ladies, I’m a Carolina bird,-- Some come from the East Indies, from the Cape too, I have heard; But I’m of Carolina--to the Big-bone lick I’ve been,-- Now in that country there _is_ something to be seen! Our Captain knows _that_! Ay, Captain, I say, Do you remember crossing the Cedar Swamp one particular day, When I got out of your pocket and flew away? Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! How it makes me laugh! You’d a pretty chase after me!--ha! ha! a pretty chase! And I sat in the hickory trees, laughing in your face! Ha! ha! ha! how I did laugh. What cypress-berries, cockel-burs, and beach-nuts grew there! You many look all this country over, and find none anywhere. And what fun it was--me, and a thousand beside, To fly in the merry sunshine through those forests wide, And build our nests--Oh, what nests we had?-- Did you ever see one of our nests--Captain? Eh, my lad?

CAPTAIN.

I’ve heard of nests of cinnamon, With the great Phœnix set thereon; And swallows’ nests, so rich and sweet Of which the Chinese people eat; But of _your_ nests I never heard, What kind are they, I pray thee, bird?

PARROT.

Nests! ha! ha! ha! what sort of nests should they be? You may fancy if you please, but you’ll never know from me! I never blab, not I! What sort of nest is built? Ha! ha! ha! with sheets and blankets and a fine Marseilles quilt! ha! ha! ha! Put it down in your little book,--a four-post bed, I say, With damask moreen hangings, and made every day! ha! ha! ha! Oh, how it makes me laugh! ha! ha! ha! I shall split my sides with laughing some of these days! ha! ha! ha!

Captain.

Come, now, you silly prate-a-pace Tell us about the Big-bone place, Where our acquaintance first began; And of those swamps, untrode by man, Where you came, impudent and merry, For cockle-burr and hackle-berry,

PARROT.

Of the Big-bone lick, did you say?--Ay, we used to go there, A Parrot’s very fond of salt! I really declare I’ve seen ten thousand of us there altogether,-- A beautiful sight it was, in fine summer weather, Like a grand velvet carpet, of orange, green and yellow, Covering the ground! Ah, Captain! my good fellow, I had reason to rue the day you came there with your gun! I would laugh if I could, but to me it was no fun--heigh-ho! No fun at all, Captain, heigh-ho!

CAPTAIN.

Nay, Poll, cheer up, you’re better here Than at the Big-bone lick, my dear!

PARROT.

Captain, how you talk! we Parrots love each other-- There you shot dozens of us,--my father and my mother,-- I shall not forget it in a hurry,--what wailing and crying,-- What flying round and round there was! What comforting the dying! You, yourself, laid down your gun,--overcome by the sight, And said you would not shoot again, at least that night! Heigh-ho! I am just ready to cry! And I think I shall cry before I have done! (_She cries like a child._) There, now, I am better! but my throat is quite hot; Can’t I have a glass of water?--(_She coughs._) Bless me, what a cold I’ve got! Do, shut that window, Jenny, or we shall all die of cold; And mend the fire, can’t you, as you already have been told! And let’s have a cup of tea, for I’m just tired to death. What a shocking cold it is! and I’m so short of breath!--(_She coughs again._) (_She speaks in another voice._) Tea’s ready, if you please. Ready is it? With the water in the pot? Yes, ma’am: Well, then, I’ll go and have my tea, while the muffin’s hot!

_Exit_ POLL.

MORNING THOUGHTS.

The summer sun is shining Upon a world so bright! The dew upon each grassy blade; The golden light, the depth of shade, All seem as they were only made To minister delight.

From giant trees, strong branched, And all their veined leaves; From little birds that madly sing; From insects fluttering on the wing; Ay, from the very meanest thing My spirit joy receives.

I think of angel voices When the birds’ songs I hear; Of that celestial city, bright With jacinth, gold, and chrysolite, When, with its blazing pomp of light, The morning doth appear!

I think of that great River That from the Throne flows free; Of weary pilgrims on its brink, Who, thirsting, have come down to drink; Of that unfailing Stream I think, When earthly streams I see!

I think of pain and dying, As that which is but nought, When glorious morning, warm and bright, With all its voices of delight, From the chill darkness of the night, Like a new life, is brought.

I think of human sorrow But as of clouds that brood Upon the bosom of the day, And the next moment pass away; And with a trusting heart I say Thank God, _all things are good_!

HARVEST-FIELD FLOWERS.

Come down into the harvest-fields This autumn morn with me; For in the pleasant autumn-fields There’s much to hear and see; On yellow slopes of waving corn The autumn sun shines clearly; And ’t is joy to walk, on days like this, Among the bearded barley.

Within the sunny harvest-fields We’ll gather flowers enow; The poppy red, the marigold, The bugles brightly blue; We’ll gather the white convolvulus That opes in the morning early; With a cluster of nuts, an ear of wheat, And an ear of the bearded barley.

Bright over the golden fields of corn Doth shine the autumn sky; So let’s be merry while we may, For time goes hurrying by. They took down the sickle from the wall When morning dew shone pearly; And the mower whets the ringing scythe To cut the bearded barley.

Come then into the harvest-fields; The robin sings his song; The corn stands yellow on the hills, And autumn stays not long. They’ll carry the sheaves of corn away; They carried to-day so early, Along the lanes, with a rustling sound, Their loads of the bearded barley.

SUMMER WOODS.

Come ye into the summer-woods; There entereth no annoy; All greenly wave the chesnut leaves, And the earth is full of joy.

I cannot tell you half the sights Of beauty you may see, The bursts of golden sunshine, And many a shady tree.

There, lightly swung, in bowery glades, The honey-suckles twine; There blooms the rose-red campion, And the dark-blue columbine.

There grows the four-leaved plant “true love,” In some dusk woodland spot; There grows the enchanter’s night-shade, And the wood forget-me-not.

And many a merry bird is there, Unscared by lawless men; The blue-winged jay, the wood-pecker, And the golden-crested wren.

Come down and ye shall see them all, The timid and the bold; For their sweet life of pleasantness, It is not to be told.

And far within that summer-wood, Among the leaves so green, There flows a little gurgling brook, The brightest e’er was seen.

There comes the little gentle birds, Without a fear of ill; Down to the murmuring water’s edge, And freely drink their fill!

And dash about and splash about, The merry little things: And look askance with bright black eyes, And flirt their dripping wings.

I’ve seen the freakish squirrel drop Down from their leafy tree, The little squirrels with the old,-- Great joy it was to me!

And down unto the running brook; I’ve seen them nimbly go; And the bright water seemed to speak A welcome kind and low.

The nodding plants they bowed their heads, As if, in heartsome cheer, They spake unto those little things, “Tis merry living here!”

Oh, how my heart ran o’er with joy! I saw that all was good, And how we might glean up delight All round us, if we would!

And many a wood-mouse dwelleth there, Beneath the old wood-shade, And all day long has work to do, Nor is, of aught, afraid.

The green shoots grow above their heads, And roots so fresh and fine, Beneath their feet, nor is there strife ’Mong them for _mine and thine_.

There is enough for every one, And they lovingly agree; We might learn a lesson, all of us, Beneath the green-wood tree!

THE CUCKOO.

“Pee! pee! pee!” says the merry Pee-Bird; And as soon as the children hear it, “The Cuckoo’s a-coming,” they say, “for I heard, Up in his tree the merry Pee-Bird, And he’ll come in three days, or near it!” The days go on, one, two, three; And the little bird singeth “pee! pee! pee!” Then on the morrow, ’tis very true, They hear the note of the old Cuckoo; Up in the elm-tree, through the day, Just as in gone years, shouting away; “Cuckoo,” the Cuckoo doth cry, And the little boys mock him as they go by.

The wood-pecker laughs to hear the strain, And says “the old fellow is come back again; He sitteth again on the very same tree, And he talks of himself again!--he! he! he!” The stock-doves together begin to coo When they hear the voice of the old cuckoo; “Ho! ho!” say they, “he did not find Those far-away countries quite to his mind, So he’s come again to see what he can do With sucking small birds’ eggs, coo-coo!” The black-bird, and throstle, and loud missel-cock, They sing altogether, the Cuckoo to mock; “What want we with him? let him stay over sea!” Sings the bold, piping reed-sparrow, “want him? not we!” “Cuckoo!” the Cuckoo shouts still, “I care not for you, let you rave as you will!” “Cuckoo!” the cuckoo doth cry, And the little boys mock him as they go by.

“Hark! hark!” sings the chiff-chaff, “hark! hark!” says the lark, And the white-throats and buntings all twitter “hark! hark!” The wren and the hedge-sparrow hear it anon, And “hark! hark!” in a moment shouts every one. “Hark! hark!--that’s the Cuckoo there, shouting amain! Bless our lives! why that egg-sucker’s come back again!” “Cuckoo!” the Cuckoo shouts still, “I shall taste of your eggs, let you rave as you will!” “Cuckoo!” the Cuckoo doth cry, And the little boys mock him as they go by.

The water-hens hear it, the rail and the smew, And they say,--“Why on land there’s a pretty to-do! Sure the Cuckoo’s come back, what else can be the matter? The pyes and the jays are all making a clatter!” “Hark! hark!” says the woodcock, “I hear him myself, Shouting up in the elm-tree, the comical elf!” “Hark! hark!” cries the widgeon, “and I hear him too, Shouting loudly as ever, that self-same Cuckoo!” “Well, well,” says the wild duck, “what is it to us; I’ve no spite ’gainst the Cuckoo; why make such a fuss? Let him shout as he listeth--he comes over sea-- And his French may be French, ’t is no matter to me; I have no spite against him, my soul’s not so narrow, I leave all such whims to the tomtit and sparrow!” “Cuckoo!” the Cuckoo shouts still, “You may all hold your peace, I shall do as I will!” “Cuckoo!” the Cuckoo doth cry, And the little boys mock him as they go by.

THE USE OF FLOWERS.

God might have bade the earth bring forth Enough for great and small, The oak-tree and the cedar-tree, Without a flower at all.

We might have had enough, enough For every want of ours, For luxury, medicine and toil, And yet have had no flowers.

The ore within the mountain mine Requireth none to grow; Nor doth it need the lotus-flower To make the river flow.

The clouds might give abundant rain; The nightly dews might fall, And the herb that keepeth life in man Might yet have drunk them all.

Then wherefore, wherefore were they made, All dyed with rainbow-light, All fashioned with supremest grace Upspringing day and night:--

Springing in valleys green and low, And on the mountains high, And in the silent wilderness Where no man passes by?

Our outward life requires them not-- Then wherefore had they birth?-- To minister delight to man, To beautify the earth;

To comfort man--to whisper hope, Whene’er his faith is dim, For who so careth for the flowers Will much more care for him!

SUNSHINE.

I love the sunshine everywhere,-- In wood and field and glen; I love it in the busy haunts Of town-imprisoned men.

I love it when it streameth in The humble cottage door, And casts the chequered casement shade Upon the red-brick floor.

I love it where the children lie Deep in the clovery grass, To watch among the twining roots The gold-green beetles pass.

I love it on the breezy sea, To glance on sail and oar, While the great waves, like molten glass, Come leaping to the shore.

I love it on the mountain-tops, Where lies the thawless snow, And half a kingdom, bathed in light, Lies stretching out below.

And when it shines in forest-glades, Hidden, and green, and cool, Through mossy boughs and veined leaves How is it beautiful!

How beautiful on little stream, When sun and shade at play, Make silvery meshes, while the brook Goes singing on its way.

How beautiful, where dragon-flies Are wondrous to behold, With rainbow wings of gauzy pearl, And bodies blue and gold!

How beautiful, on harvest slopes, To see the sunshine lie; Or on the paler reaped fields, Where yellow shocks stand high!

Oh, yes! I love the sunshine! Like kindness or like mirth, Upon a human countenance, Is sunshine on the earth!

Upon the earth; upon the sea; And through the crystal air, Or piled-up cloud; the gracious sun Is glorious everywhere!

SUMMER.

They may boast of the spring-time when flowers are the fairest, And birds sing by thousands on every green tree; They may call it the loveliest, the greenest, the rarest;-- But the summer’s the season that’s dearest to me!

For the brightness of sunshine; the depth of the shadows; The crystal of waters; the fulness of green, And the rich flowery growth of the old pasture meadows, In the glory of summer can only be seen.

Oh, the joy of the green-wood! I love to be in it, And list to the hum of the never-still bees, And to hear the sweet voice of the old mother linnet, Calling unto her young ’mong the leaves of the trees?

To see the red squirrel frisk hither and thither, And the water-rat plunging about in his mirth; And the thousand small lives that the warm summer weather, Calls forth to rejoice on the bountiful earth!

Then the mountains, how fair! to the blue vault of heaven Towering up in the sunshine, and drinking the light, While adown their deep chasms, all splintered and riven, Fall the far-gleaming cataracts silvery white!

And where are the flowers that in beauty are glowing In the garden and fields of the young, merry spring, Like the mountain-side wilds of the yellow broom blowing, And the old forest pride, the red wastes of the ling?

Then the garden, no longer ’tis leafless and chilly, But warm with the sunshine and bright with the sheen Of rich flowers, the moss rose and the bright tiger-lily, Barbaric in pomp as an Ethiop Queen.

Oh, the beautiful flowers, all colours combining, The larkspur, the pink, and the sweet mignionette, And the blue fleur-de-lis, in the warm sunlight shining, As if grains of gold in its petals were set!

Yes, the summer,--the radiant summer’s the fairest, For green-woods and mountains, for meadows and bowers, For waters, and fruits, and for flowers the rarest, And for bright shining butterflies, lovely as flowers!

THE CHILD AND THE FLOWERS.

Put up thy work, dear mother; Dear mother come with me, For I’ve found within the garden, The beautiful sweet-pea!

And rows of stately hollyhocks Down by the garden-wall, All yellow, white, and crimson, So many-hued and tall!

And bending on their stalks, mother, Are roses white and red; And pale-stemmed balsams all a-blow, On every garden-bed.

Put up thy work, I pray thee, And come out, mother dear! We used to buy these flowers, But they are growing here!

Oh, mother! little Amy Would have loved these flowers to see;-- Dost remember how we tried to get For her a pink sweet-pea?

Dost remember how she loved Those rose-leaves pale and sere? I wish she had but lived to see The lovely roses here!

Put up thy work, dear mother, And wipe those tears away! And come into the garden Before ’tis set of day!

CHILDHOOD.

Oh, when I was a little child, My life was full of pleasure; I had four-and-twenty living things, And many another treasure.

But chiefest was my sister dear, Oh, how I loved my sister! I never played at all with joy, If from my side I missed her.

I can remember many a time, Up in the morning early,-- Up in the morn by break of day, When summer dews hung pearly;

Out in the fields what joy it was, While the cowslip yet was bending, To see the large round moon grow dim, And the early lark ascending!

I can remember too, we rose When the winter stars shone brightly; ’Twas an easy thing to shake off sleep, From spirits strong and sprightly.

How beautiful were those winter skies, All frosty-bright and unclouded, And the garden-trees, like cypresses, Looked black, in the darkness shrouded!

Then the deep, deep snows were beautiful, That fell through the long night stilly, When behold, at morn, like a silent plain, Lay the country wild and hilly!

And the fir-trees down by the garden side, In their blackness towered more stately; And the lower trees were feathered with snow, That were bare and brown so lately.

And then, when the rare hoar-frost would come, ’Twas all like a dream of wonder, When over us grew the crystal trees, And the crystal plants grew under!

The garden all was enchanted land; All silent and without motion, Like a sudden growth of the stalactite, Or the corallines of ocean!

’Twas all like a fairy forest then, Where the diamond trees were growing, And within each branch the emerald green And the ruby red were glowing.

I remember many a day we spent In the bright hay-harvest meadow; The glimmering heat of the noonday ground, And the hazy depth of shadow.

I can remember, as to-day, The corn-field and the reaping, The rustling of the harvest-sheaves, And the harvest-wain’s upheaping:

I can feel this hour as if I lay Adown ’neath the hazel bushes, And as if we wove, for pastime wild, Our grenadier-caps of rushes.

And every flower within that field To my memory’s eye comes flitting, The chiccory-flower, like a blue cockade, For a fairy-knight befitting.

The willow-herb by the water side, With its fruit-like scent so mellow; The gentian blue on the marly hill, And the snap-dragon white and yellow.

I know where the hawthorn groweth red; Where pink grows the way-side yarrow; I remember the wastes of woad and broom, And the shrubs of the red rest-harrow.

I know where the blue geranium grows, And the stork’s-bill small and musky; Where the rich osmunda groweth brown, And the wormwood white and dusky.

There was a forest a-nigh our home,-- A forest so old and hoary, How we loved in its ancient glooms to be, And remember its bygone story!

We sate in the shade of its mighty trees, When the summer noon was glowing, And heard in the depths of its undergrowth The pebbly waters flowing.

We quenched our thirst at the forest-well; We ate of the forest berry; And the time we spent in the good green-wood, Like the times of song, were merry.

We had no crosses then, no cares; We were children like yourselves then; And we danced and sang, and made us mirth, Like the dancing moonlight elves then!

L’ENVOI.

Go, little book, and to the young and kind, Speak thou of pleasant hours and lovely things; Of fields and woods; of sunshine; dew and wind; Of mountains; valleys, and of river-springs; Speak thou of every little bird that sings; Of every bright, sweet-scented flower that blows; But chiefest speak of Him whose mercy flings Beauty and love abroad, and who bestows Light to the sun alike, with odour to the rose.

My little book that hast been unto me, Even as a flower reared in a pleasant place, This is the task that I impose on thee;-- Go forth; with serious style or playful grace, Winning young, gentle hearts; and bid them trace With thee, the spirit of LOVE through earth and air; On beast and bird, and on our mortal race, So, do thy gracious work; and onward fare, Leaving, like angel-guest, a blessing everywhere!

SKETCHES OF NATURAL HISTORY.

TO ANNA MARY AND ALFRED WILLIAM HOWITT,

THESE SKETCHES,

ORIGINALLY WRITTEN FOR THEIR AMUSEMENT, ARE AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED.

SKETCHES OF NATURAL HISTORY.

THE COOT.

Oh Coot! oh bold, adventurous Coot, I pray thee tell to me, The perils of that stormy time That bore thee to the sea!

I saw thee on the river fair, Within thy sedgy screen; Around thee grew the bulrush tall, And reeds so strong and green.

The kingfisher came back again To view thy fairy place; The stately swan sailed statelier by, As if thy home to grace.

But soon the mountain-flood came down, And bowed the bulrush strong; And far above those tall green reeds, The waters poured along.

“And where is she, the Water-Coot,” I cried, “that creature good?” But then I saw thee in thine ark, Regardless of the flood.

Amid the foaming waves thou sat’st, And steer’dst thy little boat; Thy nest of rush and water-reed So bravely set afloat.

And on it went, and safely on That wild and stormy tide; And there thou sat’st, a mother bird, Thy young ones at thy side.

Oh Coot! oh bold, adventurous Coot, I pray thee tell to me, The perils of that stormy voyage That bore thee to the sea!

Hadst thou no fear, as night came down Upon thy watery way, Of enemies, and dangers dire That round about thee lay?

Didst thou not see the falcon grim Swoop down as thou passed by? And ’mong the waving water flags The lurking otter lie?

The eagle’s scream came wildly near, Yet, caused it no alarm? Nor man, who seeing thee, weak thing, Did strive to do thee harm?

And down the foaming waterfall, As thou wast borne along, Hadst thou no dread? Oh daring bird, Thou hadst a spirit strong!

Yes, thou hadst fear. But He who sees The sparrows when they fall; He saw thee, bird, and gave thee strength To brave thy perils all.

He kept thy little ark afloat; He watched o’er thine and thee; And safely through the foaming flood Hath brought thee to the sea.”

THE EAGLE.

No, not in the meadow, and not on the shore; And not on the wide heath with furze covered o’er, Where the cry of the Plover, the hum of the bee, Give a feeling of joyful security: And not in the woods, where the nightingale’s song, From the chesnut and orange pours all the day long; And not where the Martin has built in the eaves, And the Red-breast e’er covered the children with leaves, Shall ye find the proud Eagle! O no, come away; I will show you his dwelling, and point out his prey! Away! let us go where the mountains are high, With tall splintered peak towering into the sky; Where old ruined castles are dreary and lone, And seem as if built for a world that is gone; There, up on the topmost tower, black as the night, Sits the old monarch Eagle in full blaze of light: He is king of these mountains: save him and his mate, No Eagle dwells there; he is lonely and great! Look, look how he sits! with his keen glancing eye, And his proud head thrown back, looking into the sky; And hark to the rush of his out-spreading wings, Like the coming of tempest, as upward he springs, And now how the echoing mountains are stirred, For that was the cry of the Eagle you heard! Now, see how he soars! like a speck in the height Of the blue vaulted sky, and now lost in the light! And now downward he wheels as a shaft from a bow By a strong archer sent, to the valleys below! And that is the bleat of a lamb of the flock;-- One moment, and he re-ascends to the rock.-- Yes, see how the conqueror is winging his way And his terrible talons are holding their prey! Great bird of the wilderness! lonely and proud, With a spirit unbroken, a neck never bowed, With an eye of defiance, august and severe, Who scorn’st an inferior, and hatest a peer, What is it that giveth thee beauty and worth? Thou wast made for the desolate places of earth; To mate with the tempest; to match with the sea; And God showed his power in the Lion and thee!

THE GARDEN.

I had a Garden when a child; I kept it all in order; ’Twas full of flowers as it could be, And London-pride was its border.

And soon as came the pleasant Spring, The singing birds built in it; The Blackbird and the Throstle-cock, The Woodlark and the Linnet.

And all within my Garden ran A labyrinth-walk so mazy; In the middle there grew a yellow Rose; At each end a Michaelmas Daisy.

I had a tree of Southern Wood, And two of bright Mezereon; A Peony root, a snow-white Phlox, And a bunch of red Valerian;

A Lilac tree, and a Guelder-Rose; A Broom, and a Tiger-lily; And I walked a dozen miles to find The true wild Daffodilly.

I had Columbines, both pink and blue, And Thalictrum like a feather; And the bright Goat’s-beard, that shuts its leaves Before a change of weather.

I had Marigolds, and Gilliflowers, And Pinks all Pinks exceeding; I’d a noble root of Love-in-a-mist, And plenty of Love-lies-bleeding.

I’d Jacob’s Ladder, Aaron’s Rod, And the Peacock-Gentianella; I had Asters, more than I can tell, And Lupins blue and yellow.

I set a grain of Indian Corn, One day in an idle humour, And the grain sprung up six feet or more, My glory for a summer.

I found far off in the pleasant fields, More flowers than I can mention; I found the English Asphodel, And the spring and autumn Gentian.

I found the Orchis, fly and bee, And the Cistus of the mountain; And the Money-wort, and the Adder’s tongue Beside an old wood fountain.

I found within another wood, The rare Pyrola blowing: For wherever there was a curious flower I was sure to find it growing.

I set them in my garden beds, Those beds I loved so dearly, Where I laboured after set of sun, And in summer mornings early.

O my pleasant garden-plot!-- A shrubbery was beside it, And an old and mossy Apple-tree, With a Woodbine wreathed to hide it.

There was a bower in my garden-plot, A Spiræa grew before it; Behind it was a Laburnum tree, And a wild Hop clambered o’er it.

Ofttimes I sat within my bower, Like a king in all his glory; Ofttimes I read, and read for hours, Some pleasant, wondrous story.

I read of Gardens in old times, Old, stately Gardens, kingly, Where people walked in gorgeous crowds, Or for silent musing, singly.

I raised up visions in my brain, The noblest and the fairest; But still I loved my Garden best, And thought it far the rarest.

And all among my flowers I walked, Like a miser ’mid his treasure; For that pleasant plot of Garden ground Was a world of endless pleasure.

THE SPIDER AND THE FLY.

AN APOLOGUE.

A NEW VERSION OF AN OLD STORY.

“Will you walk into my parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly. “Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy; The way into my parlour is up a winding stair, And I’ve many curious things to show when you are there,” “Oh no, no,” said the little Fly, “to ask me is in vain, For who goes up your winding stair can ne’er come down again.”

“I’m sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high; Will you rest upon my little bed?” said the Spider to the Fly. “There are pretty curtains drawn around; the sheets are fine and thin, And if you like to rest awhile, I’ll snugly tuck you in!” “Oh, no, no,” said the little Fly, “for I’ve often heard it said, They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!”

Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, “Dear friend, what can I do, To prove the warm affection I’ve always felt for you? I have within my pantry, good store of all that’s nice; I’m sure you’re very welcome--will you please to take a slice?” “Oh no, no,” said the little Fly, “kind sir, that cannot be, I’ve heard what’s in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!”

“Sweet creature!” said the Spider, “you’re witty and you’re wise, How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes! I’ve a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf, If you’ll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself.” “I thank you, gentle sir,” she said, “for what you’re pleased to say, And bidding you good morning now, I’ll call another day.”

The Spider turned him round about, and went into his den, For well he knew the silly Fly would soon come back again: So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly, And set his table ready, to dine upon the Fly. Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing, “Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing; Your robes are green and purple--there’s a crest upon your head; Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead!”

Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly, Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by; With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew, Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue-- Thinking only of her crested head--poor foolish thing! At last, Up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her fast. He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den, Within his little parlour--but she ne’er came out again!

And now, dear little children, who may this story read, To idle, silly, nattering words, I pray you ne’er give heed; Unto an evil counsellor, close heart and ear and eye, And take a lesson from this tale, of the Spider and the Fly.

TALES IN VERSE.

ANDREW LEE.

THE FISHER BOY.

Ah! Fisher Boy, I well know thee, Brother thou art to Marion Lee! What! didst thou think I knew thee not, Couldst thou believe I had forgot? For shame, for shame! what? I forget The treasures of thy laden net! And how we went one day together, One day of showery summer weather, Up the sea-shore, and for an hour Stood sheltering from a pelting shower, Within an upturned, ancient boat, That had not been for years afloat! No, no, my boy! I liked too well The old sea-stories thou didst tell; I liked too well thy rougish eye-- Thy merry speech--thy laughter sly; Thy old sea-jacket, to forget,-- And then the treasures of thy net!

Oh, Andrew! thou hast not forgot, I’m very sure that thou hast not, All that we talked about that day, Of famous countries far away! Of Crusoes in their islands lone, That never were, nor will be known, And yet this very moment stand Upon some point of mountain land, Looking out o’er the desert sea, If chance some coming ship there be. Thou know’st we talked of this--thou know’st We talked about a ship-boy’s ghost-- A wretched little orphan lad Who served a master stern and bad, And had no friend to take his part, And perished of a broken heart; Or by his master’s blows, some said, For in the boat they found him dead, And the boat’s side was stained and red!

And then we talked of many a heap Of ancient treasure in the deep, And the great serpent that some men, In far-off seas, meet now and then; Of grand sea-palaces that shine Through forests of old coralline; And wondrous creatures that may dwell In many a crimson Indian shell; Till I shook hands with thee, to see Thou wast a poet--Andrew Lee! Though thou wast guiltless all the time Of putting any thoughts in rhyme; Ah, little fisher boy! since then, Ladies I’ve seen and learned men, All clever, and some great and wise, Who study all things, earth and skies, Who much have seen, and much have read, And famous things have writ and said; But Andrew, never have I heard One who so much my spirit stirred, As he who sate with me an hour, Screened from the pelting thunder-shower-- Now laughing in his merry wit; Now talking in a serious fit, In speech that poured like water free; And that was thou--poor Andrew Lee!

Then shame to think I knew thee not-- Thou hast not, nor have I forgot; And long ’twill be ere I forget How thou took’st up thy laden net, And gave me all that it contained, Because I too thy heart had gained!

THE WANDERER’S RETURN.

There was a girl of fair Provence, Fresh as a flower in May, Who ’neath a spreading plane-tree sate, Upon a summer-day, And thus unto a mourner young, In a low voice did say.

“And said I, I shall dance no more; For though but young in years, I knew what makes men wise and sad,-- Affection’s ceaseless fears, And that dull aching of the heart, Which is not eased by tears.

“But sorrow will not always last, Heaven keeps our griefs in view; Mine is a simple tale, dear friend, Yet I will tell it you; A simple tale of household grief And household gladness too.

“My father in the battle died, And left young children three; My brother Marc, a noble lad, With spirit bold and free, More kind than common brothers are; And Isabel and me.

“When Marc was sixteen summers old, A tall youth and a strong, Said he, ‘I am a worthless drone, I do my mother wrong-- I’ll hence and win the bread I eat, I’ve burdened you too long!’

“Oh! many tears my mother shed; And earnestly did pray, That he would still abide with us, And be the house’s stay; And be like morning to her eyes, As he had been alway.

“But Marc he had a steadfast will, A purpose fixed and good, And calmly still and manfully Her prayers he long withstood; Until at length she gave consent, Less willing than subdued.

“Twas on a shining morn in June, He rose up to depart; I dared not to my mother show The sadness of my heart; We said farewell, and yet farewell. As if we could not part.

“There seemed a gloom within the house, Although the bright sun shone; There was a want within our hearts-- For he, the dearest one, Had said farewell that morn of June, And from our sight was gone.

“At length most doleful tidings came, Sad tidings of dismay; The plague was in the distant town, And hundreds died each day; We thought, in truth, poor Marc would die, ’Mid strangers far away.

“Weeks passed, and months, and not a word Came from him to dispel The almost certainty of death Which o’er our spirits fell; My mother drooped from fear, which grew Each day more terrible.

“At length she said, ‘I’ll see my son In life if yet he be, Or else the turf that covers him!’ When sank she on her knee, And clasped her hands in silent prayer And wept most piteously.

“She went into the distant town, Still asking everywhere For tidings of her long lost son:-- In vain she made her prayer; All were so full of woe themselves, No pity had they to spare.

“To hear her tell that tale would move The sternest heart to bleed; She was a stranger in that place, Yet none of her took heed; And broken-hearted she came back, A bowed and bruised reed.

“I marked her cheek yet paler grow, More sunken yet her eye; And to my soul assurance came That she was near to die, And hourly was my earnest prayer Put up for her on high.

“Oh, what a woe seemed then to us, The friendless orphan’s fate! I dared not picture to my mind, How drear, how desolate-- But, like a frightened thing, my heart Shrunk from a pang so great!

“We rarely left my mother’s side, ’Twas joy to touch her hand, And with unwearying, patient love, Beside her couch to stand, To wait on her, and every wish Unspoke to understand.

“At length, oh joy beyond all joys! When we believed him dead, One calm and sunny afternoon, As she lay on her bed In quiet sleep, methought below I heard my brother’s tread.

“I rose, and on the chamber stair, I met himself--no other-- More beautiful than ere before, My tall and manly brother! I should have swooned, but for the thought Of my poor sleeping mother.

“I cannot tell you how we met;-- I could not speak for weeping; Nor had I words enough for joy,-- My heart within seemed leaping, I should have screamed, but for the thought Of her who there lay sleeping!

“That Marc returned in joy to us, My mother dreamed e’en then, And that prepared her for the bliss Of meeting him again;-- To tell how great that bliss, would need The tongue of wisest men!

“His lightest tone, his very step, More power had they to win My drooping mother back to life, Than every medicine; She rose again, like one revived From death where he had been!

“The story that my brother told Was long, and full of joy; Scarce to the city had he come, A poor and friendless boy, Than he chanced to meet a merchant good, From whom he asked employ.

“The merchant was a childless man; And in my brother’s face, Something he saw that moved his heart To such unusual grace; ‘My son,’ said he, ‘is dead, wilt thou Supply to me his place?’

“Even then, bound to the golden East, His ship before him lay; And this new bond of love was formed There, standing on the quay; My brother went on board with him, And sailed that very day!

“The letter that he wrote to us, It never reached our hand; And while we drooped with anxious love, He gained the Indian strand, And saw a thousand wondrous things, In that old, famous land.

“And many rich and curious things, Bright bird and pearly shell; He brought as if to realize The tales he had to tell; My mother smiled, and wept, and smiled, And listened, and grew well.

“The merchant loved him more and more, And did a father’s part; And blessed my brother for the love That healed his wounded heart; He was a friend that heaven had sent Kind mercy to impart.

“So do not droop, my gentle friend, Though grief may burden sore; Look up to God, for he hath love And comfort in great store, And ofttimes moveth human hearts To bless us o’er and o’er.”

A SWINGING SONG.

Merry it is on a summer’s day, All through the meadows to wend away; To watch the brooks glide fast or slow, And the little fish twinkle down below; To hear the lark in the blue sky sing, Oh, sure enough, ’tis a merry thing--But ’tis merrier far to swing--to swing!

Merry it is on a winter’s night, To listen to tales of elf and sprite, Of caves and castles so dim and old,-- The dismallest tales that ever were told;-- And then to laugh, and then to sing, You may take my word is a merry thing,-- But ’tis merrier far to swing--to swing!

Down with the hoop upon the green; Down with the ringing tambourine;-- Little heed we for this or for that; Off with the bonnet, off with the hat! Away we go like birds on the wing! Higher yet! higher yet! “Now for the King!” This is the way we swing--we swing!

Scarcely the bough bends, Claude is so light, Mount up behind him--there, that is right! Down bends the branch now;--swing him away; Higher yet--higher yet--higher I say! Oh, what a joy it is! Now let us sing “A pear for the Queen--an apple for the King!” And shake the old tree as we swing--we swing!

ELLEN MORE.

“Sweet Ellen More,” said I, “come forth Beneath the sunny sky; Why stand you musing all alone, With such an anxious eye? What is it, child, that aileth you?” And thus she made reply:

“The fields are green, the skies are bright, The leaves are on the tree, And ’mong the sweet flowers of the thyme Far flies the honey-bee; And the lark hath sung since morning prime, And merrily singeth he.

“Yet not for this shall I go forth On the open hills to play, There’s not a bird that singeth now, Would tempt me hence to stray;-- I would not leave our cottage door For a thousand flowers to-day!”

“And why?” said I, “what is there here Beside your cottage door, To make a merry girl like you Thus idly stand to pore? There is a mystery in this thing,-- Now tell me, Ellen More!”

The fair girl looked into my face, With her dark and serious eye; Silently awhile she looked, Then heaved a quiet sigh; And, with a half-reluctant will, Again she made reply.

“Three years ago, unknown to us, When nuts were on the tree, Even in the pleasant harvest-time, My brother went to sea-- Unknown to us, to sea he went, And a woful house were we.

“That winter was a weary time, A long, dark time of woe; For we knew not in what ship he sailed And vainly sought to know; And day and night the loud, wild winds Seemed evermore to blow.

“My mother lay upon her bed, Her spirit sorely tossed With dismal thoughts of storm and wreck Upon some savage coast, But morn and eve we prayed to Heaven That he might not be lost.

“And when the pleasant spring came on, And fields again were green, He sent a letter full of news, Of the wonders he had seen; Praying us to think him dutiful As he afore had been.

“The tidings that came next were from A sailor old and gray, Who saw his ship at anchor lie In the harbor at Bombay; But he said my brother pined for home, And wished he were away.

“Again he wrote a letter long, Without a word of gloom; And soon, and very soon he said, He should again come home; I watched, as now, beside the door, And yet he did not come.

“I watched and watched, but I knew not then It would be all in vain; For very sick he lay the while, In a hospital in Spain.-- Ah, me! I fear my brother dear Will ne’er come home again!

“And now I watch--for we have heard That he is on his way, And the letter said, in very truth, He would be here to-day. Oh! there’s no bird that singeth now Could tempt me hence away!”

--That self-same eve I wandered down Unto the busy strand, Just as a little boat came in With people to the land; And ’mongst them was a sailor-boy Who leaped upon the sand.

I knew him by his dark blue eyes, And by his features fair; And as he leaped ashore he sang A simple Scottish air,-- “There’s nae place like our ain dear hame To be met wi’ onywhere!”

A DAY OF DISASTERS.

A CONVERSATION BETWEEN PETER AND ZEDEKIAH.

PETER.--Zedekiah, come here!

ZEDEKIAH.--Well now, what’s the matter?

PETER.--Look at my hat; the more I set it right, it only gets the flatter.

ZEDEKIAH.--Why, Peter, what’s come to your hat? I never saw such a thing.

PETER.--I’ve had nothing but ill-luck to-day; I did this with the swing; I’ve been tossed into the apple-tree just as if I was a ball, And though I caught hold of a bough, I’ve had a terrible fall; I’m sure I should have cracked my scull, had it not been for my hat. You may see what a fall it was, for the crown’s quite flat; And it never will take its shape again, do all that ever I may!

ZEDEKIAH.--Never mind it, Peter! Put it on your head, and come along, I say!

PETER.--Nay, I shall not. I shall sit down under this tree; I’ve had nothing but ill-luck to-day. Come, sit down by me, And I’ll tell you all, Zedekiah, for I feel quite forlorn; Oh dear! oh dear! I’m lamed now!--I’ve sate down upon a thorn!

ZEDEKIAH.--Goodness’ sake! Peter be still--what a terrible bellow-- One would think you’d sate on a hornet’s nest; sit down, my good fellow.

PETER.--I’ll be sure there are no more thorns here, before I set down; Pretty well of one thorn at a time, Master Zedekiah Brown! There, now, I think this seat is safe and easy--so now you must know I was fast asleep at breakfast time; and you’ll always find it so, That if you begin a day ill, it will be ill all the day. Well, when I woke, the breakfast-things were clattering all away: And I know they had eggs and fowl, and all sort of good things; But then none may partake who are in bed when the morning bell rings; So, sadly vexed as I was, I rolled myself round in bed, And, “as breakfast is over, I’ll not hurry myself,” I said, So I just got into a nice little doze, when in came my mother; And “for shame, Peter,” she said, “to be a-bed now! well, you can’t go with your brother!” Then out of the door she went, without another word; And just then a sound of wheels, and of pawing horses’ hoofs I heard; So I jumped up to the window to see what it was, and I declare There was a grand party of fine folks setting off somewhere: There was my brother, mounted on the pony so sleek and brown; And Bell in her white frock, and my mother in her satin gown; And my father in his best, and two gentlemen beside; And I had never heard a word about it, either of drive or ride! I really think it was very queer of them to set off in that way-- If I’d only known over-night, I’d have been up by break of day! As you may think, I was sadly vexed, but I did not choose to show it, So I whistled as I came down stairs, that the servants might not know it; Then I went into the yard, and called the dog by his name, For I thought if they were gone, he and I might have a good game; But I called and called, and there was no dog either in this place or th’ other; And Thomas said, “Master Peter, Neptune’s gone with your brother.” Well, as there was no dog, I went to look for the fox, And sure enough the chain was broke, and there was no creature in the box; But where the fellow had gone nobody could say, He had broken loose himself, I suppose, and so had slipped away; I would give anything I have but to find the fox again-- And was it not provoking, Zedekiah, to lose him just then?

ZEDEKIAH.--Provoking enough! Well, Peter, and what happened next?

PETER.--Why, when I think of it now, it makes me quite vexed; I went into the garden, just to look about To see, if the green peas were ready, or the scarlet-lychnis come out; And there, what should I clap my eyes on but the old sow, And seven little pigs, making a pretty row! And of all places in the world, as if for very spite, They had gone into my garden, and spoiled and ruined it quite! The old sow, she had grubbed up my rosemary and old-man by the root, And my phlox and my sunflowers, and my hollyhocks that were as black as soot; And every flower that I set store on was ruined for ever; I never was so mortified in all my life--never!

ZEDEKIAH.--You sent them off, I should think, with a famous swither!

PETER.--Grunting and tumbling one over the other, I cared not whither. Well, as I was just then standing, grieving over the ruin, I heard Thomas call, “Master Peter, come and see what the rats have been doing-- They’ve eaten all the guinea-pigs’ heads off!”

ZEDEKIAH.--Oh, Peter, was it true?

PETER.--Away I ran, not knowing what in the world to do!-- And there--I declare it makes me quite shudder to the bone-- Lay all my pretty little guinea-pigs as dead as a stone! “It’s no matter of use,” says Thomas, “setting traps; for you see They no more care for a trap, than I do for a pea; I’ll lay my life on’t, there are twenty rats now down in that hole, And we can no more reach ’em, than an underground mole!” I declare, Zedekiah, I never passed such a day before--not I; It makes me quite low-spirited, till I’m ready to cry. All those pretty guinea-pigs! and I’ve nothing left at all, Only the hawk, and I’ve just set his cage on the wall.

ZEDEKIAH.--Hush! hush, now! for Thomas is saying something there,

PETER.--What d’ye say, Thomas?

THOMAS.--The hawk’s soaring in the air! The cage-door was open, and he’s flown clean away!

PETER.--There now, Zedekiah, is it not an unfortunate day? I’ve lost all my favourites--I’ve nothing left at all, And my garden is spoiled, and I’ve had such a dreadful fall! I wish I had been up this morning as early as the sun, And then I should have gone to Canonley, nor have had all this mischief done! I’m sure its quite enough to make me cry for a year-- Let’s go into the house, Zedekiah; what’s the use of sitting here?

THE YOUNG MOURNER.

Leaving her sports, in pensive tone, ’Twas thus a fair young mourner said, “How sad we are now we’re alone,-- I wish my mother were not dead!

“I can remember she was fair; And how she kindly looked and smiled, When she would fondly stroke my hair, And call me her beloved child.

“Before my mother went away, You never sighed as now you do; You used to join us at our play, And be our merriest playmate too.

“Father, I can remember when I first observed her sunken eye, And her pale, hollow cheek; and then I told my brother she would die!

“And the next morn they did not speak, But led us to her silent bed; They bade us kiss her icy cheek, And told us she indeed was dead!

“Oh, then I thought how she was kind, My own beloved and gentle mother! And calling all I knew to mind, I thought there ne’er was such another!

“Poor little Charles, and I! that day We sate within our silent room; But we could neither read nor play,-- The very walls seemed full of gloom.

“I wish my mother had not died, We never have been glad since then! They say, and is it true,” she cried, “That she can never come again?”

The father checked his tears, and thus He spake, “My child, they do not err, Who say she cannot come to us; But you and I may go to her.

“Remember your dear mother still, And the pure precepts she has given; Like her, be humble, free from ill, And you shall see her face in heaven!”

THE SOLDIER’S STORY.

“Heaven bless the boys!” the old man said, “I hear their distant drumming,-- Young Arthur Bruce is at their head, And down the street they’re coming.

“And a very noble standard too He carries in the van; By the faith of an old soldier, he Is born to make a man!”

A glow of pride passed o’er his cheek, A tear came to his eye; “Hurra, hurra! my gallant men!” Cried he, as they came nigh.

“It seems to me but yesterday Since I was one like ye, And now my years are seventy-two,-- Come here, and talk with me!”

They made a halt, those merry boys, Before the aged man; And “tell us now some story wild,” Young Arthur Bruce began;

“Of battle and of victory Tell us some stirring thing!” The old man raised his arm aloft, And cried, “God save the King!

“A soldier’s is a life of fame, A life that hath its meed-- They write his wars in printed books, That every man may read.

“And if you’d hear a story wild, Of war and battle done, I am the man to tell such tales, And you shall now have one.

“In every quarter of the globe I’ve fought--by sea, by land; And scarce for five and fifty years Was the musket from my hand.

“But the bloodiest wars, and fiercest too, That were waged on any shore, Were those in which my strength were spent, In the country of Mysore.

“And oh! what a fearful, deadly clime Is that of the Indian land, Where the burning sun shines fiercely down On the hot and fiery sand!

“The life of man seems little worth, And his arm hath little power His very soul within him dies, As dies a broken flower.

“Yet spite of this, was India made As for a kingly throne; There gold is plentiful as dust, As sand the diamond stone;

“And like a temple is each house, Silk-curtained from the sun; And every man has twenty slaves, Who at his bidding run.

“He rides on the lordly elephant, In solemn pomp;--and there They hunt the gold-striped tiger, As here they hunt the hare.

“Yet it is a dreadful clime! and we Up in the country far Were sent,--we were two thousand men, In a disastrous war.

“The soldiers died in the companies As if the plague had been; And soon in every twenty men, The dead were seventeen.

“We went to storm a fort of mud-- And yet the place was strong-- Three thousand men were guarding it, And they had kept it long.

“We were in all three hundred souls, Feeble and worn and wan; Like walking spectres of the tomb, Was every living man.

“Yet Arthur Bruce, now standing there, With the ensign of his band, Reminds me of a gallant youth, Who fought at my right hand.

“Scarce five and twenty years of age, And feeble as the rest, Yet with the bearing of a king, That noble soul expressed.

“But a silent grief was in his eye, And oft his noble frame Shook like a quivering aspen leaf, And his colour went and came.

“He marched by my side for seven days, Most patient of our band; And night and day he ever kept Our standard in his hand.

“They fought with us like tigers, Before that fort of mud; And all around the burning sands Were as a marsh with blood.

“We watched that young man,--he to us Was as a kindling hope; We saw him pressing on and on, Bearing the standard up.

“At length it for a moment veered-- A ball had struck his hand, But he seized the banner with his left, Without a moment’s stand.

“He mounted upward to the wall; He waved the standard high,-- But then another smote him!-- And the captain standing by

“Said, ‘Of this gallant youth take care, He hath won for us the day!’ I and my comrades took him up, And bore him thence away.

“There was no tree about the place, So ’neath the fortress shade We carried him, and carefully Upon the red sand laid.

“I took the feather from my cap, To fan his burning cheek; I gave him water, drop by drop, And prayed that he would speak.

“At length he said, ‘mine hour is come! My soldier-name is bright; But a pang there is within my soul, That hath wrung me day and night:

“‘I left my mother’s home without Her blessing;--she doth mourn, Doth weep for me with bitter tears,-- I never can return!

“‘This bowed my eagle-spirit down, This robbed mine eye of rest; I left her widowed and alone:-- Oh that I had been blessed!’

“No more he said,--he closed his eyes. And yet he died not then; He lived till the morrow morning came, But he never spoke again.”

This tale the veteran soldier told, Upon a summer’s day;-- The boys came merrily down the street, But they all went sad away.

THE CHILD’S LAMENT.

I like it not--this noisy street I never liked, nor can I now-- I love to feel the pleasant breeze On the free hills, and see the trees, With birds upon the bough!

Oh, I remember long ago,-- So long ago, ’tis like a dream-- My home was on a green-hill side, By flowery meadows, still and wide, ’Mong trees, and by a stream.

Three happy brothers I had then, My merry playmates every day-- I’ve looked and looked through street and square, But never chanced I, anywhere, To see such boys as they.

We all had gardens of our own-- Four little gardens in a row,-- And there we set our twining peas; And rows of cress; and real trees, And real flowers to grow.

My father I remember too, And even now his face can see; And the gray horse he used to ride, And the old dog that at his side Went barking joyfully!

He used to fly my brothers’ kites, And build them up a man of snow, And sail their boats, and with them race; And carry me from place to place; Just as I liked to go.

I’m sure he was a pleasant man, And people must have loved him well! Oh, I remember that sad day When they bore him in a hearse away, And tolled his funeral bell!

Thy mother comes each night to kiss Thee, in thy little quiet bed-- So came my mother years ago; And I loved her--oh! I loved her so, ’Twas joy to hear her tread!

It must be many, many years Since then, and yet I can recall Her very tone--her look--her dress, Her pleasant smile and gentleness, That had kind words for all.

She told us tales, she sang us songs, And in our pastimes took delight, And joined us in our summer glee, And sat with us beneath the tree! Nor wearied of our company, Whole days, from morn till night.

Alas! I know that she is dead, And in the cold, cold grave is hid; I saw her in her coffin lie, With the grim mourners standing by; And silent people solemnly Closed down the coffin lid.

My brothers were not there--ah me! I know not where they went; some said With a rich man beyond the sea That they were dwelling pleasantly-- And some that they were dead.

I cannot think that it is so, I never saw them pale and thin, And the last time their voice I heard, Merry were they as a summer-bird, Singing its bowers within.

I wish that I could see their faces, Or know at least that they were near; Ah! gladly would I cross the sea, So that with them I might but be, For now my days pass wearily, And all are strangers here.

A DAY OF HARD WORK.

A CONVERSATION BETWEEN HARRY AND KITTY.

KITTY.--Well, now you’ve been running about so, pray can’t you sit still? I want to have some talk with you, and I certainly will: I’ve got all this unpicking to do, for while I talk I must work; You boys can run about idling--I sit stitching like a Turk, Come, now tell me, can’t you, something about the farm-yard? How many eggs has the turkey laid--and is that muddy place dry and hard? Come, tell me in a minute, I haven’t patience to wait; And till you begin, sir, there’s a thimble-pie for you on the top of your pate.

HARRY.--Oh Kitty! you’ve knocked me so, I’ll tell my mother, that I will! If you do so, miss, nobody will like you, so you’d better be still.

KITTY.--Well, then, tell me something! why should I be still and nobody talking?

HARRY.--Oh! I’m tired with this running about, and this riding, and this walking; I wish there was no such thing as running or walking at all; And I wish every horse were in the fields, or else tied up in its stall! What’s your work, Kitty? sitting still in the house at ease; You’ve nothing to do but to sit down, and get up again, just as you please; And yet you talk of your work, as if ’twas the hardest that e’er was done, Why compare it with mine, child, and I’m sure it’s nothing but fun!

KITTY.--Child! I’m no more child than you; I’m but younger by a year, I desire you to speak respectfully to me, now, sir,--do you hear?

HARRY.--Yes, yes, I hear! But I really am so tired, as I was just now saying; I wish you’d get your work done, and let’s begin playing! You can’t believe, I’m sure, all the work I’ve done this day-- I’ve weeded two carrot beds, and the onions-- and carried all the weeds away; And I’ve been down to Thomas Jackson’s to tell him to get the horse shod; And in coming back there was a great, big, rusty nail, upon which I trod, And it lamed me so, I don’t believe I shall walk for a week, At least as I ought to do, for my ancle has quite a creak!

KITTY.--Oh dear, let me look at it! Why, I’m sure it is quite shocking-- See, there’s a hole as large as my thimble in the ancle of your stocking!

HARRY.--Oh no, ’tis the other foot--that I tore with a bramble; And that reminds me, Jack Smith and I had such a terrible scramble! We were catching the pony that I might ride down to the mill, To bid him bring the flour home, for I declare he has it still; And we shan’t have a bit of white bread in the house, nor a pudding, nor a pie, If he don’t bring it home--every one says he’s shamefully idle, and so do I. Well, but I haven’t told you after all, what a deal of work I’ve done; And I’m sure if you knew what weeding was, you would not call it fun; It makes one’s back ache so, stooping to weed all day, I shall be famously glad when it’s done!

KITTY.--But are you quite ready for play? I’ve but a little bit to do--I shall have done in half a quarter of an hour; And as you’ve nothing to do, just run and see if that lavender’s in flower-- There’s a good Harry, do; I’ll do seven times as much for you; You know I sewed, yesterday, that old clasp in your shoe.

HARRY.--I’d go, if I thought you’d have done by the time I come back:

KITTY.--To be sure I shall!--I wish you would not waste so much time with your clack!

HARRY.--Well, just let me pull up my shoe, and put by this peacock’s feather,

KITTY.--Nay, you may as well stay now; I’ve just done, and we’ll both go together; For I want to show you something like a magpie’s nest up in a tree, Only I don’t think it is a magpie’s nest, and I can’t think what it can be; And it is just by the lavender bush, and ’twill save us going there twice:-- There, now I’ve done my work! and I shall be ready in a trice!

HARRY.--Well, then let us begone; we shall have two whole hours for play; I didn’t think we should have had so much time, and I’ been working all day!

THE OLD MAN AND THE CARRION CROW.

There was a man and his name was Jack, Crabbed and lean, and his looks were black-- His temper was sour, his thoughts were bad; His heart was hard when he was a lad. And now he followed a dismal trade, Old horses he bought and killed and flayed, Their flesh he sold for the dogs to eat; You would not have liked this man to meet. He lived in a low mud-house on a moor, Without any garden before the door. There was one little hovel behind, that stood, Where he used to do his work of blood; I never could bear to see the place, It was stained and darkened with many a trace; A trace of what I will not tell-- And then there was such an unchristian smell!

Now this old man did come and go, Through the wood that grew in the dell below; It was scant a mile from his own door-stone, Darksome and dense, and overgrown; And down in the drearest nook of the wood, A tall and splintered fir-tree stood; Half-way up, where the boughs outspread, A carrion crow his nest had made, Of sticks and reeds in the dark fir-tree, Where lay his mate and his nestlings three; And whenever he saw the man come by, “Dead horse! dead horse!” he was sure to cry, “Croak, croak!” if he went or came, The cry of the crow was just the same, Jack looked up as grim as could be, And says, “what’s my trade to the like of thee!” “Dead horse! dead horse! croak, croak! croak, croak!” As plain as words to his ear it spoke. Old Jack stooped down and picked up a stone, A stout, thick stick, and dry cow’s bone, And one and the other all three did throw, So angry was he, at the carrion crow; But none of the three reached him or his nest, Where his three young crows lay warm at rest; And “Croak, croak! dead horse! croak, croak!” In his solemn way again he spoke; Old Jack was angry as he could be, And says he, “On the morrow, I’ll fell thy tree,-- I’ll teach thee, old fellow, to rail at me!”

As soon as t’was light, if there you had been, Old Jack at his work you might have seen; I would you’d been there to see old Jack, And to hear the strokes as they came “thwack! thwack!” And then you’d have seen how the croaking bird Flew round as the axe’s stroke he heard, Flew round as he saw the shaking blow, That came to his nest from the root below, One after the other, stroke upon stroke; “Thwack! thwack!” said the axe, said the crow, “Croak! croak!” Old Jack looked up with a leer in his eye, And “I’ll hew it down!” says he, “by and bye! I’ll teach thee to rail, my old fellow, at me!” So he spit on his hands, and says, “have at the tree!” “Thwack!” says the axe, as the bark it clove; “Thwack!” as into the wood it drove; “Croak!” says the crow in a great dismay, “Croak!” as he slowly flew away. Flap, flap went his wings over hedge and ditch, Till he came to a field of burning twitch; The boy with a lighted lantern there, As he stood on the furrow brown and bare, He saw the old crow hop hither and thither, Then fly with a burning sod somewhither.

Away flew the crow to the house on the moor, A poor, old horse was tied to the door; The burning sod on the roof he dropped, Then upon the chimney stone he hopped, And down he peeped that he might see, How many there were in family-- There was a mother and children three. “Croak! croak!” the old crow did say. As from the roof he flew away, As he flew away to the tree, to watch The burning sod and the dry grey thatch, He stayed not long till he saw it smoke, Then he flapped his wings, and cried, “Croak, croak!” Away to the wood again, flew he, And soon he espied the slanting tree, And Jack, who stood laughing with all his might, His axe in his hand--he laughed for spite; In triumph he laughed, and took up a stone, And hammered his axe-head faster on; “Croak, croak!” came the carrion crow, Flapping his wings with a motion slow; “Thwack, thwack!” the spiteful man, When he heard his cry, with his axe began; “Thwack, thwack!” stroke upon stroke; The crow flew by with a “Croak, croak!” With a “Croak, croak!” again he came, Just as the house burst into flame. With a splitting crash, and a crackling sound, Down came the tree unto the ground; The old’s crow’s nest afar was swung; And the young ones here and there were flung; And just at that moment came up a cry, “Oh Jack, make haste, or else we die; The house is on fire, consuming all, Make haste, make haste, ere the roof tree fall!” The young crows every one were dead; But the old crow croaked above his head; And the mother-crow on Jack she springs, And flaps in his face her great, black wings; And all the while he hears a wail, That turns his cheek from red to pale-- ’Twas wife and children standing there Wringing their hands and tearing their hair! “Oh woe, our house is burnt to cinder, Bedding and clothes all turned to tinder; Down to the very hearth-stone clean, Such a dismal ruin ne’er was seen: What shall we do?--where must we go?” “Croak, croak!” says the carrion crow.

* * * * *

Now ye who read this story through, Heed well the moral--’tis for you;-- Strife brings forth strife; be meek and kind See all things with a loving mind; Nor e’er by passion be misled,-- Jack by himself was punished.

THE LITTLE MARINER.

Ay, sitting on your happy hearths, beside your mother’s knee, How should you know the miseries and dangers of the sea! My father was a mariner, and from my earliest years, I can remember, night and day, my mother’s prayers and tears. I can remember how she sighed when blew the stormy gale; And how for days she stood to watch the long-expected sail: Hers was a silent, patient grief; but fears and long delay, And wakeful nights and anxious days were wearing her away.

And when the gusty winds were loud, and autumn leaves were red, I watched, with heavy heart, beside my mother’s dying bed; Just when her voice was feeblest, the neighbors came to say, The ship was hailed an hour before, and then was in the bay.

Alas! too late the ship returned, too late her life to save; My father closed her dying eyes, and laid her in the grave. He was a man of ardent hopes, who never knew dismay; And, spite of grief, the winter time wore cheerfully away.

He had crossed the equinoctial line, full seven times or more, And sailing northward, had been wrecked on icy Labrador: He knew the Spicy-isles, every one, where the clove and nutmeg grow, And the aloe towers a stately tree with clustering bells of snow.

He had gone the length of Hindostan, down Ganges’ holy flood; Through Persia, where the peacock broods a wild bird of the wood; And, in the forests of the West, had seen the red-deer chased, And dwelt beneath the piny woods, a hunter of the waste.

Oh! pleasant were the tales he told of lands so strange and new; And, in my ignorance I vowed, I’d be a sailor too: My father heard my vow with joy,--so in the early May, We went on board a merchant-man, bound for Honduras’ bay.

Right merrily, right merrily, we sailed before the wind, With a briskly heaving sea before, and the landsman’s cheer behind. There was joy for me in every league, delight on every strand, And I sate for days on the high fore-top, on the long look-out for land.

There was joy for me in the nightly watch, on the burning Tropic seas, To mark the waves, like living fires, leap up to the freshening breeze. Right merrily, right merrily, our gallant ship went free, Until we neared the rocky shoals within the Western sea.

Yet still none thought of danger near, till in the silent night, The helmsman gave the dreadful word of “breakers to the right!” The moment that his voice was heard, was felt the awful shock; The ship sprang forward with a bound, and struck upon a rock.

“All hands aloft!” our captain cried;--in terror and dismay They threw the cargo overboard, and cut the masts away; ’Twas all in vain, ’twas all in vain! the sea rushed o’er the deck, And shattered with the beating surf, down went the parting wreck.

The moment that the wreck went down, my father seized me fast, And leaping ’mid the thundering waves, seized on the broken mast: I know not how he bore me up, my senses seemed to swim, A shuddering horror chilled my brain, and stiffened every limb.

What next I knew, was how at morn, on a bleak barren shore, Out of a hundred mariners, were living only four. I looked around, like one who wakes from dreams of fierce alarm, And round my body still I felt, firm locked, my father’s arm.

And with a rigid, dying grasp, he closely held me fast, Even as he held me when he seized, at midnight on the mast. With humbled hearts and streaming eyes, down knelt the little band, Praying Him who had preserved their lives, to lend his guiding hand.

And day by day, though burning thirst and pining hunger came, His mercy, through our misery, preserved each drooping frame: And after months of weary woe, sickness, and travel sore, He sent the blessed English ship that took us from that shore.

And now, without a home or friend, I wander far and near, And tell my miserable tale to all who lend an ear. Thus sitting by your happy hearths, beside your mother’s knee, How should you know the miseries and dangers of the sea!

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

THE SALE OF THE PET LAMB OF THE COTTAGE.

Oh! poverty is a weary thing, ’tis full of grief and pain, It boweth down the heart of man, and dulls his cunning brain, It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain!

The children of the rich man have not their bread to win: They hardly know how labour is the penalty of sin; Even as the lilies of the field, they neither toil nor spin.

And year by year, as life wears on, no wants have they to bear; In all the luxury of the earth they have abundant share; They walk among life’s pleasant ways, and never know a care.

The children of the poor man--though they be young, each one, Early in the morning they rise up before the rising sun, And scarcely when the sun is set, their daily task is done.

Few things have they to call their own, to fill their hearts with pride,-- The sunshine of the summer’s day, the flowers on the highway side, Or their own free companionship, on the heathy common wide.

Hunger, and cold, and weariness, these are a frightful three; But another curse there is beside, that darkens poverty:-- It may not have one thing to love, how small soe’er it be.

A thousand flocks were on the hills--a thousand flocks, and more,-- Feeding in sunshine pleasantly,--they were the rich man’s store; There was the while, one little lamb, beside a cottage door;

A little lamb that did lie down with the children ’neath the tree; That ate, meek creature, from their hands, and nestled on their knee; That had a place within their hearts, as one of the family.

But want, even as an armed man, came down upon their shed, The father laboured all day long, that his children might be fed; And, one by one, their household things, were sold to buy them bread.

That father, with a downcast eye, upon his threshold stood, Gaunt poverty each pleasant thought had in his heart subdued; “What is the creature’s life to us?” said he, “’twill buy us food!

“Ay, though the children weep all day, and with down-drooping head Each does his small craft mournfully!--the hungry must be fed; And that which has a price to bring, must go, to buy us bread!”

It went--oh! parting has a pang the hardest heart to wring, But the tender soul of a little child with fervent love doth cling, With love that hath no feignings false, unto each gentle thing!

Therefore most sorrowful it was those children small to see, Most sorrowful to hear them plead for their pet so piteously;-- “Oh! mother dear, it loveth us; and what beside have we?

“Let’s take him to the broad, green hills,” in his impotent despair, Said one strong boy, “let’s take him off, the hills are wide and fair; I know a little hiding-place, and we will keep him there!”

’Twas vain!--they took the little lamb, and straightway tied him down, With a strong cord they tied him fast;--and o’er the common brown, And o’er the hot and flinty roads, they took him to the town.

The little children through that day, and throughout all the morrow From everything about the house a mournful thought did borrow; The very bread they had to eat was food unto their sorrow!--

Oh! poverty is a weary thing, ’tis full of grief and pain-- It keepeth down the soul of man, as with an iron chain; It maketh even the little child, with heavy sighs complain!

AMERICA.

A STORY OF THE INDIAN WAR.

“I was at William Penn’s country-house, called Pensbury, in Pennsylvania, where I staid some days. Much of my time I spent in seeing William Penn, and many of the chief men among the Indians, in council concerning their former covenant, now renewed on his going away for England. To pass by several particulars, I may mention the following: ‘They never broke covenant with any people,’ said one of their great chiefs; and, smiting his hand upon his head, he said, ‘they made not their covenants there, but _here_,’ said he, smiting on his breast three times.

* * * * *

“I, being walking in the woods, espied several wigwams, and drew towards them. The love of God filled my heart; and I felt it right to look for an interpreter, which I did. Then I signified that I was come from a far country with a message from the Great Spirit (as they call God,) and my message was to endeavour to persuade them that they should not be drunkards, nor steal, nor kill one another, nor fight, nor put away their wives for small faults; for if they did these things, the Great Spirit would be angry with them, and would not prosper them, but bring trouble on them. On the contrary, if they were careful to refrain from these evils, then would he love them, and prosper them, and speak peace to them. And when the interpreter expressed these things to them in their own language, they wept till tears ran down their naked bodies.

* * * * *

“They manifested much love towards me in their way, as they did mostly to upright, plain-dealing Friends; and whilst I was amongst them my spirit was very easy: nor did I feel that power of darkness to oppress me, as I had done in many places amongst people calling themselves _Christians_.”--_Journal of John Richardson, one of the early Friends._

* * * * *

They read of rapine, war, and woe, A party by an English fire,-- Of Indian warfare in the wood, Of stern and ruthless ire.

They read of torture worse than death-- Of treachery dark--of natures base-- Of women savage as the beast-- Of the red Indian race.

“Hold!” said the matron of the hearth, A woman beautiful in age; “And let me of the Indian speak; Close, close that faithless page!

“My father was the youngest born In an old rural English hall; The youngest out of five stout sons, With patrimony small.

“His boyhood was in greenwood spent; His youth was all a sylvan dream; He tracked the game upon the hills; He angled in the stream.

“Quiet was he, and well content, With naught to fret, and none to chide; For all that his young heart desired The woods and streams supplied.

“Small knowledge had a youth so trained, College or school ne’er knew his face; And yet as he grew up, he grew Superior to his race.

“His brethren were of sordid sort, Men with coarse minds, and without range; He grew adventurous and bold, Inquisitive of change.

“And, as he grew, he took to books, And read what’er the hall supplied; Histories of admirals, voyages old, And travels far and wide.

“He read of settlers, who went forth To the far west, and pitched their tent Within the woods, and grew, ere long, To a great, prosperous settlement.

“He read of the bold lives they led, Full of adventure, hardy, free; Of the wild creatures they pursued, Of game in every tree.

“And how the Indians, quaintly gay, Came down in wampum-belt and feather, To welcome them with courteous grace; How they and the free forest race Hunted and dwelt together.

“And how they and their chosen mates Led lives so sweet and primitive: Oh! in such land, with one dear heart, What joy it were to live!

“So thought he, and such life it were As suited well his turn of mind; For what within his father’s house Was there to lure or bind?

“Four needy brothers, coarse and dull; A patrimony, quite outspent; A mother, long since in her grave; A father, weak and indolent!

“At twenty he had ta’en a mate, A creature gentle, kind, and fair; Poor, like himself, but well content The forest-life to share.

“She left an old white-headed sire; A mother loving, thoughtful, good; She left a home of love, to live For him, within the wood.

“And that old couple did provide, Out of their need, for many a want Else unforseen; their daughter’s dower In gifts of love, not scant.

“His father with cold scorn received So dowered a daughter, without name; Nor could his purposed exile win Either assent or blame.

“All was a chill of indifference; And from his father’s gate he went, As from a place where none for him Had kindred sentiment.

“And in the westren world they dwelt; Life, like a joyous summer morn, Each hope fulfilled; and in the wild To them were children born.

“All that his youth had dreamed he found In that life’s freshness; peril strange; Adventure; freedom; sylvan wealth; And ceaseless, blameless change.

“And there he, and his heart’s true mate, Essay’d and found how sweet to live, ’Mid nature’s store, with health and love, That life so primitive!

“But that sweet life came to an end.-- As falls the golden-eared corn Before the sickle, earthly bliss In human hearts is shorn.

“Sickness--bereavement--widowhood-- Oh, these three awful words embrace A weight of mortal woe that fell Upon our sylvan dwelling place!

“It matters not to tell of pangs, Of the heart broken, the bereft; I will pass over death and tears, I will pass on to other years, When only two were left!

“I and a sister; long had passed The anguish of that time, and we Were living in a home of love, Though in a stranger’s family.

“Still in the wilderness we dwelt, And were grown up towards womanhood; When our sweet life of peace was stirred By tales of civil feud.

“By rumors of approaching war, Of battle done, of armed bands; Of horrid deeds of blood and fire, Achieved by Indian hands.

“We heard it first with disbelief: And long time after, when had spread Wild war throughout the land, we dwelt All unassailed by dread.

“For they with whom our lot was cast, Were people of that Christian creed Who will not fight, but trust in God For help in time of need.

“The forest round was like a camp, And men were armed day and night; And every morning brought fresh news To heighten their affright.

“Through the green forest rose the smoke Of places burn’d the night before; And from their victims, the red scalp The excited Indian tore.

“This was around us, yet we dwelt In peace upon the forest bound; Without defence, without annoy, The Indian camp’d all round.

“The door was never barr’d by night, The door was never closed by day; And there the Indians came and went, As they had done alway.

“For ‘these of Onas are the sons,’ Said they, ‘the upright peaceful men!’ Nor was harm done to those who held The faith of William Penn.

“But I this while thought less of peace, Than of the camp and battle stir; For I had given my young heart’s love Unto a British officer.

“Near us, within the forest-fort, He lay, the leader of a band Of fierce young spirits, sworn to sweep The Indian from the land--

“The native Indian from his woods-- I deem’d it cowardly and base; And, with a righteous zeal I pled For the free forest-race.

“But he, to whom I pled, preferr’d Sweet pleading of another sort; And we met ever ’neath the wood Outside the forest-fort.

“The Indian passed us in the wood, Or glared upon us from the brake; But he, disguised, with me was safe, For Father Onas’ sake.

“At length the crisis of the war Approach’d, and he, my soul’s beloved, With his hot band, impatient grown, Yet further west removed.

“There he was taken by the foe, Ambush’d like tigers ’mid the trees: You know what death severe and dread The Indian to his foe decrees

“A death of torture and of fire-- Protracted death; I knew too well, Outraged and anger’d, as of late Had been the Indian spirit, fell Would be their vengeance, and, to him, Their hate implacable.

“When first to me his fate was told, I stood amazed, confounded, dumb; Then wildly wept and wrung my hands, By anguish overcome.

“‘Wait, wait!’ the peaceful people said; ‘Be still and wait, the Lord is good!’ But when they bade me trust and wait, I went forth in my anguish great, To hide me in the wood.

“I had no fear; the Indian race To me were as my early kin: And then the thought came to my brain, To go forth, and from death and pain, My best beloved to win.

“With me my fair, young sister went, Long journeying on through wood and swamp: Three long days’ travel, ere we came To the great Indian camp.

“We saw the Indians as we went, Hid ’mong the grass with tiger ken; But we were safe, they would not harm The daughters of the peaceful men.

“In thickets of the woods at length We came to a savannah green; And there, beneath the open day, The Indian camp was seen.

“I turned me from that scene of war, And from the solemn council-talk, Where stood the warriors, stern, and cold, War-crested, and with bearing bold, Listening unto a sachem old, Who held aloft a tomahawk.

“I knew they were athirst for blood; That they had pity none to spare;-- Besides, bound to a tree, I saw An English captive there.

“I saw his war plume, soil’d and torn; I knew that he was doom’d to die; Pale, wounded, feeble, there he stood; The ground was crimson’d with his blood; Yet stood he as a soldier should-- Erect, with calm, determined eye.

“I would not he should see me then,-- The sight his courage had betray’d; Therefore unseen we stepp’d aside, Into the forest-glade.

“An Indian woman there was set, We knew her, and to her were known; The wife of a great chief was she, Deck’d in her Indian bravery; Yet there she sat alone.

“‘Woman,’ I said, the silence breaking, ‘Thou know’st us--know’st that we belong To peaceful people, who have ne’er Done to thy nation wrong.

‘Thou know’st that ye have dwelt with us, As friend upon the hearth of friend;-- When have ye ask’d and been denied, That this good faith should end?’

“The Indian did not raise her head, As she replied in accents low, ‘Why come ye hither unto me, When I am sitting in my woe?’

“‘Woman,’ I said, ‘I ask for life-- For life, which in your hands doth lie; Go bid thy tribe release the bands Of him now doomed to die!

“‘Go, Indian woman, and do this, For thou art mighty with thy race!’ The Indian made me no reply, But looked into my face.

“‘Mighty! said’st thou?’ at length she spoke, ‘Mighty!--to one no longer wife! The hatchet and the tomahawk Lie by me on the forest-walk; The great chief in my hut lies low, The ruthless pale-face struck the blow-- And yet thou com’st to me for life!’

“‘By that chief’s memory,’ I cried, ‘Whom ne’er the peaceful men gainsaid; To whom the peaceful men were dear; Rise, though thou stricken be, and aid!

“‘Crave not REVENGE,’ and with my words My tears flow’d fast, though hers were dry; ‘But look upon this pictured face, And say if such a one shall die!’

“Long looked she on the pictured face, Which from my neck I took and gave; Long looked she ere a word was spoke, And then she slowly silence broke, ‘The hatchet is not buried yet; The tomahawk with blood is wet; And the great chief is in his grave!

“‘Yet for the father Onas’ sake-- For their sakes who no blood have shed, We will not by his sons be blamed For taking life which they have claimed;-- The red man can avenge his dead!’

“So saying, with her broken heart-- She went forth to the council-stone; And when the captive was brought out, ’Mid savage war-cry, taunt and shout, She stepp’d into the fierce array, As the bereaved Indian may, And claim’d the victim for her own.

“He was restored. What need of more To tell the joy that thence ensued! But sickness followed long and sore, And he for a twelvemonth or more, With our good, peaceful friends abode.

“But we, two plighted hearts, were wed; A merry marriage ye may wis;-- And guess ye me a happy life-- In England here, an honoured wife,-- Sweet friends, ye have not guess’d amiss!

“But never more let it be said, The red man is of nature base; Nor let the crimes that have been taught, Be by the crafty teachers brought As blame against the Indian race!”

MOURNING ON EARTH.

She lay down in her poverty, Toil-stricken, though so young; And the words of human sorrow Fell trembling from her tongue.

There were palace-houses round her; And pomp and pride swept by The walls of that poor chamber, Where she lay down to die.

Two were abiding with her, The lowly of the earth,-- Her feeble, weeping sister, And she who gave her birth.

She lay down in her poverty, Toil-stricken, though so young; And the words of human sorrow Fell from her trembling tongue.

“Oh, Lord, thick clouds of darkness About my soul are spread, And the waters of affliction Have gathered o’er my head!

“Yet what is life? A desert, Whose cheering springs are dry, A weary, barren wilderness!-- Still it is hard to die!

“For love, the clinging, deathless, Is with my life entwined; And the yearning spirit doth rebel To leave the weak behind!

“Oh Saviour, who didst drain the dregs Of human woe and pain, In this, the fiercest trial-hour, My doubting soul sustain!

“I sink, I sink! support me; Deep waters round me roll! I fear! I faint! O Saviour, Sustain my sinking soul!”

REJOICING IN HEAVEN.

“Oh spirit, freed from bondage, Rejoice, thy work is done! The weary world is ’neath thy feet, Thou brighter than the sun!

“Arise, put on the garments Which the redeemed wore! Now sorrow hath no part in thee, Thou sanctified from sin!

“Awake and breathe the living air Of our celestial clime! Awake to love which knows no change, Thou, who hast done with time!

“Awake, lift up thy joyful eyes, See, all heaven’s host appears; And be thou glad exceedingly, Thou, who hast done with tears!

“Awake! ascend! Thou art not now With those of mortal birth,-- The living God hath touch’d thy lips, Thou who hast done with earth!”

AN ENGLISH GRAVE AT MUSSOOREE.

Mussooree, the site of a station which is now one of the chief resorts of the visiters from the plains, stands at an elevation of seven thousand five hundred feet above the level of the sea, and is situated on the southern face of the ridge called the Landour Range, and overlooking the village of that name, which has been chosen for the establishment of a military sanitarium, for those officers and privates belonging to the Bengal army, who have lost their health in the plains.

Nothing can be imagined more delicious to an invalid, half dying under the burning sun of India, than the being removed into the fine, bracing, and cool atmosphere of this station. All round him are the most sublime natural objects--the most stupendous rivers and mountains of the world, but all subdued into a character of astonishing beauty; while the growth of the hills, and of the very ground under his feet, must transport him back into his native Britain.

* * * * *

“Tell me about my son, dear friend, for I can bear to know, Now that my heart is stayed by prayer, that history of woe! But whence was it, of seven sons, all men of strength and pride, This only one--the gentlest one--forsook his mother’s side!

“That he in whom a flower, a star, a love-inspired word, The poet’s heart, all tenderness, even from his boyhood stirred; Who was my dearest counsellor, in his dead father’s place; Who was a daughter unto me, who ne’er did one embrace.

“How was it that he only left his home, his native land, He only, kindest, gentlest, and youngest of my band? That he whom I had looked to close mine eyes--to lay me low, Died first, and far away! Oh God, thy counsels who shall know!

“But murmuring thus, I sin! Dear friend, forgive a mother’s grief, And tell me of my son; thy words will bring assured relief: Tell me of each minutest look--even of his sufferings tell, My heart takes comfort from thy voice, for thou didst love him well!”

“I loved him well, oh, passing well! all he had been to thee-- Friend, counsellor, the spirit’s life--so had he been to me! Yet murmur not, thou broken heart, our vision fails to show The scope of that mysterious good whose base is human woe!

“Thy best-beloved murmured not, his faith was never dim, And that strong love which was his life, sprang everywhere for him, We saw him droop, and many a one, else scarce to love beguiled, Watched him, as tender parents watch a favourite drooping child.

“For the hot plains where he had lain, by cureless wounds oppressed, We bore him to the northern hills, to a sweet land of rest. Oh, what a joy it was to him to feel the cool winds blow, To see the golden morning light array the peaks of snow!

“What joy to see familiar things where’er his footsteps trod; The oak-tree in the mountain-cleft; the daisy on the sod; The primrose and the violet; the green moss of the rill; The crimson wild-briar rose, and the strawberry of the hill!

“How often these sweet living flowers were bathed in blissful tears, For then his loving spirit drank the joy of bygone years; And sitting ’mong those giant hills, his boyhood round him lay-- That sunny time of careless peace, so long since past away.

“He told me of his English home; I knew it well before: Mine eyes had seen its trees, or ere my shadow crossed the door; The very sun-dial on the green, I knew its face again; And the small summer parlour with its jasmine-wreathed pane.

“And thou! all thou hadst been to him, he told me; bade me seek Thy face, and to thy broken heart dear words of comfort speak: Oh, mother of the blessed dead, weep not; sweet thoughts of thee, Like ministering angels at the last, the joyous soul set free!

“Oh, mother of the dead, weep not as if that far-off grave Possessed thy spirit’s best beloved--‘thy beautiful, thy brave;’ The gifted, living soul lies not beneath that Eastern sod, All thou hast cherished liveth still, and calleth thee to God!”

A FOREST SCENE

IN THE DAYS OF WICKLIFFE.

A little child she read a book Beside an open door; And, as she read page after page, She wonder’d more and more.

Her little finger carefully Went pointing out the place;-- Her golden locks hung drooping down, And shadow’d half her face.

The open book lay on her knee, Her eyes on it were bent; And as she read page after page, The colour came and went.

She sate upon a mossy stone An open door beside; And round, for miles on every hand, Stretch’d out a forest wide.

The summer sun shone on the trees, The deer lay in the shade; And overhead the singing birds Their pleasant clamour made.

There was no garden round the house. And it was low and small,-- The forest sward grew to the door; The lichens on the wall.

There was no garden round about, Yet flowers were growing free, The cowslip and the daffodil, Upon the forest-lea.

The butterfly went flitting by, The bees were in the flowers; But the little child sate steadfastly, As she had sate for hours.

“Why sit you here, my little maid?” An aged pilgrim spake; The little child look’d upward from her book, Like one but just awake.

Back fell her locks of golden hair, And solemn was her look, And thus she answer’d, witlessly, “Oh, sir, I read this book!”

“And what is there within that book To win a child like thee?-- Up! join thy mates, the merry birds, And frolic with the bee!”

“Nay, sir, I cannot leave this book, I love it more than play;-- I’ve read all legends, but this one Ne’er saw I till this day.

“And there is something in this book That makes all care be gone,-- And yet I weep, I know not why, As I go reading on!”

“Who art thou, child, that thou shouldst read A book with mickle heed?-- Books are for clerks--the King himself Hath much ado to read!”

“My father is a forrester-- A bowman keen and good; He keeps the deer within their bound, And worketh in the wood.

“My mother died in Candlemas,-- The flowers are all in blow Upon her grave at Allonby Down in the dale below.”

This said, unto her book she turned, As steadfast as before; “Nay,” said the pilgrim, “nay, not yet, And you must tell me more.

“Who was it taught you thus to read?” “Ah, sir, it was my mother,-- She taught me both to read and spell-- And so she taught my brother;

“My brother dwells at Allonby With the good monks alway;-- And this new book he brought to me, But only for one day.

“Oh, sir, it is a wondrous book, Better than Charlemagne,-- And, be you pleased to leave me now, I’ll read in it again!”

“Nay, read to me,” the pilgrim said; And the little child went on, To read of CHRIST, as was set forth In the Gospel of St. John.

On, on she read, and gentle tears Adown her cheeks did slide; The pilgrim sate, with bended head, And he wept at her side.

“I’ve heard,” said he, “the Archbishop, I’ve heard the Pope of Rome, But never did their spoken words Thus to my spirit come!

“The book, it is a blessed book! Its name, what may it be?” Said she, “They are the words of Christ That I have read to thee; Now done into the English tongue For folks unlearn’d as we!”

“Sancta Marie!” said the man, Our canons have decreed That this is an unholy book For simple folks to read!

“Sancta Maria! Bless’d be God! Had this good book been mine, I need not have gone on pilgrimage To holy Palestine!

“Give me the book, and let me read! My soul is strangely stirr’d;-- They are such words of love and truth As ne’er before I heard!”

The little girl gave up the book, And the pilgrim, old and brown, With reverent lips did kiss the page, Then on the stone sat down.

And aye he read page after page; Page after page he turn’d; And as he read their blessed words His heart within him burn’d.

Still, still the book the old man read, As he would ne’er have done; From the hour of noon he read the book, Unto the set of sun.

The little child she brought him out A cake of wheaten bread; But it lay unbroke at eventide; Nor did he raise his head Until he every written page Within the book had read.

Then came the sturdy forester Along the homeward track, Whistling aloud a hunting tune, With a slain deer on his back.

Loud greeting gave the forester Unto the pilgrim poor; The old man rose with thoughtful brow, And enter’d at the door.

The two had sate them down to meat, And the pilgrim ’gan to tell How he had eaten on Olivet, And drank at Jacob’s well.

And then he told how he had knelt Where’er our LORD had pray’d; How he had in the Garden been, And the tomb where he was laid;--

And then he turned unto the book, And read, in English plain, How CHRIST had died on Calvary; How he had risen again;

And all his comfortable words, His deeds of mercy all, He read, and of the widow’s mite, And the poor prodigal.

As water to the parched soil, As to the hungry, bread, So fell upon the woodman’s soul Each word the pilgrim read.

Thus through the midnight did they read, Until the dawn of day; And then came in the woodman’s son To fetch the book away.

All quick and troubled was his speech, His face was pale with dread, For he said, “The King hath made a law That the book must not be read,-- For it was such a fearful heresy, The holy Abbot said.”

THE END.

Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious punctuation mistakes have been corrected.

Page 10: “better caculated” changed to “better calculated”

Page 42: “ice-montains” changed to “ice-mountains”

Page 71: “hung a peice” changed to “hung a piece”

Page 129: “trees were” changed to “trees where”