Chapter II: Part 2

O-u-t, out, and in again."

|Inklings and meanings,

"Whispers and hints;

Sprinklings and gleanings,

Shimmers and glints.

That's how the light comes

Down from the sides;

That's how the beauty

Is born to our eyes.

The seed is within,

And the thorn is without:

Nature's sweet secret

Is guarded about.

Yet briers are slender,

Locks are but slight,

To touch of a genius

That searches with light.

White by the fountain

Sit the calm seven;

Unto their joyance

Its music is given.

The world looketh on,

And still wonders in vain,

As they go out and in,

And find pasture again.

DOUBLES AND BUBBLES.

"Hey, rub-a-dub!

Three maids in a tub!

And who do you think was there?

The butcher, the baker,

The candlestick-maker,

And all of them gone to the fair."

|Strong hands are in the washing-tubs;

Gay heads, the labor scorning,

Make holiday between the rubs,

And sport of Monday morning.

Three maids? That's _your_ arithmetic.

The child that met the poet

Would still to her own counting stick:

"We 're seven; I surely know it!"

The boatman ferried over three

Across the haunted river;

And only guessed it by his fee,

And wondered at the giver.

And Betsey, Jane, and Mary Ann,--

If more your sense discovers?

Well, rub your insight if you can,

And reckon up the lovers!

Count Jane with her stout cleaver knight,

And Betsey with the baker;

And Mary Ann in dreamy light

Beside the candle-maker.

Yet of the six no soul is there,

For all your wakened vision!

In the charmed circle of the Fair

They walk their Fields Elysian!

The work goes on by board and bench,--

Hard tax of human sinning,--

But hearts thro' labor-chinks still wrench

Some joy of their beginning.

In the close limit that confines

Our getting and our giving,

Unless we read between the lines,

What should we do with living?

FUNERAL HOLIDAY.

"Ding, dong, bell,

The cat's in the well!

Who put her in? Little John Green.

Who pulled her out? Great John Stout!"-

|There was never a drama of sorrow

But good folks might be found, I'm afraid,

Who a queer satisfaction could borrow

From the parts of importance they played.

There is war for four years in the nation:

There are havoc and panic abroad:

Comes a tempest; a wild conflagration:

Great souls go up home to their God.

How the tall I's spring thick in the spell-

ing!--

I knew, or I saw, or I said!--

How the small ones turn out to the swelling

Each splendor of final parade!

How many are left, we may wonder,

Heart-mournful for that which befell?

How many would wish back the blunder

"When the Cat has got into the Well!

Nay, more; if with infinite bother

And peril, poor Puss is got out,

Somehow, one boy seems famous as t' other,

John Green is as big as John Stout!

See, now! let me tell you a story

Of something which happened in sooth;

That shows with how fearless a glory

The children and simple speak truth.

Biddy came to her mistress refulgent;

A whole sunrise of smiles on her face;

'With w M'am, could ye be so indulgent

Jist to shpare me the day, if ye plase?

"It 's me cousin that 's dead,--Kate

M'Gawtherin,--

Was married to Barnaby Roach;

An' I 'd want,--but I hates to be both-

erin',--

Three shillings to pay for the coach!"

And so we were minus our dinners;

And all that deplorable day

We fasted, like penitent sinners,

While Biddy the cook was away.

But she came when the sunset was gleam-

ing;

And her story she gleefully told;

Disdaining all dolorous seeming,

In a way that was good to behold.

Each loving and sad recollection

Of the late Mrs. Barnaby Roach

Quite absorbed in the single reflection

That she "wint wid himsel' in the coach!"

"For he thrated me, faith, like a lady,

An' he paid me me fare, an' ahl;

An' he tould me that I, Bridget Brady,

Was the charm of the funeral!"

DISROBED.

"There was a little woman, as I've heard tell,

She went to market her eggs for to sell:

She went to market all on a market day,

And she fell asleep on the king's highway.

"There came a little peddler, his name was Stout;

He cut off her petticoats round about:

He cut off her petticoats up to her knees,

And the poor little woman began for to freeze.

"She began to shiver, and she began to cry,

Lawk-a-mercy on me! sure it is n't I!

But if it be I, as I think it ought to be,

I 've got a little dog at home, and he knows me!"

|I think of a poor, tired Soul,

That has trodden, up and down,

The tradeways of this busy life,

To and from its market town,

Till, traffic and toil all past,

At the silent close of the day,

She lies down, weary and worn, at last,

On the king's highway;--

The highway that brings all home,

Never a one left out;--

And in her sleep doth a Stranger come

Who cuts her garments about.

Cuts the life-tatters away,

All the old rags and the stain;

And leaves the Soul 'twixt her night and

day,

To waken again.

Slowly she wakens, and strange;

Strange and scared she doth seem;

Marvelling at the mystical change

Come over her in her dream.

"Where is my life?" she cries,

"That which I knew me by?

Something is here in an unknown guise:

Can it be I?

"I wonder if anything is:

Or if I am anything:

Did ever a Soul come bare as this

From its earthward marketing?

Let me think down into the past;

Bethink me hard in the cold;

Find me something to stand by fast;

Something to hold!"

She thinks away back to the morning,

To something she loved and knew;

And over her doubt comes dawning

Sense of the dear and true.

"I do n't know if it be I," she sighs;

"But if after all it be,

There 's a little heart at home in the skies,

And he 'll know me!"

JACK AND JILL.

"Jack and Jill

Went up the hill,

To draw a pail of water:

Jack fell down

And broke his crown,

And Jill came tumbling after."

|Jack and Jill went up the hill,

When the world was young, together.

Jack and Jill went up the hill,

In Eden ways and weather.

She to seek out blessed springs,

He to bear the burden:

Nature their sole choice of things,

Love their only guerdon.

That was all the simple creatures knew.

Jack and Jill come down the hill,

In the world's fall years, together.

Jack and Jill come down the hill,

And there is stormy weather.

'T is all about the _pail_, you see;

The sweet springs are behind them:

Empty-handed seemeth she

Who only helped to find them.

Jill would like to swing a bucket, too.

O'er the hillside coming down,

Eagerly and proudly,

Sparkling trophies to the town

To bear, she clamors loudly.

But, in face of all the town,

Challenging its laughter,

Many a Jack comes tumbling down.

Shall the Jills come after?

_Is_ that what the women want to do?

Listen! When on heights of life

Hidden pools He planted,

God to Adam and his wife

Wise division granted.

Gave his son the pitcher broad

For wealth and weight of water;

But the quick divining-rod

Confided to his daughter.

Ah, if men and women only knew!

CASUS BELLI.

Impromptu, July, 1870.

"The sow came in with the saddle;

The little pig rocked the cradle;

The dish jumped up on the table

To see the pot swallow the ladle;

The spit that stood behind the door

Threw the pudding-stick on the floor.

"Odsplut!" said the gridiron,

Can't you agree?

I'm the head constable,

Bring 'em to me.'"

|Spain came in with an empty throne;

The little prince rocked his German cradle

"No, no," he said;

And he shook his head;

"I am well content to be let alone."

All the dishes on pantry-ledge

And shelf, and table, were up on edge,

To see how the Pot,

Simmering hot,

Would foam at the dip of the threatening

ladle.

Nothing befell for a minute or so,

(Nobody chose to be first, you know),

Till the royal spit, with an angry frown,

Threw a little pudding-stick down.

"Odsplut!" shouts Emperor Gridiron,

Hissing for a broil,

"Those folks that stand behind the door

Are getting up a coil!

I 've red Fire panting at my feet;

I thought how things would be!

I?m creation's constable,

Bring the world to me!"

THE DAYS THAT ARE LONG.

"I'll sing you a song

Of the days that are long;

Of the woodcock and the sparrow;

Of the little dog

That burnt his tail,

And he shall be whipt to-morrow."

|That is the song the world sings

Of the long bright days:

That is the way she evens things,

Portions, and pays.

The dog that let his tail burn,

Proving one pain,

Shall be whipt next day, that he may learn

Wisdom again.

That is the song the world sings

To sin and sorrow:

Over her limit her hard lash flings

Into God's morrow.

Measures His dear divine grace

In compass narrow:

Counts for nothing the infinite days;

Forgets the sparrow.

The world sings only a half song;

Leaves our hearts sore:

Heaven, in the time that is tender and long,

Will sing us more.

THREESCORE AND TEN.

"How many miles to Babylon?

Threescore and ten.

Can I get there by candle-light?

Yes, and back again."

|How many miles of the weary way?

Threescore miles and ten.

Where shall I be at the end of the day?

Yon shall be back again.

You shall prove it all in the lifelong round;

The joy, and the pain and the sinning;

And at candle-light your soul shall be found

Back--at its new beginning.

Down in his grave the old man lies;

In from the earthward wild,

At the open door of Paradise

Enters a little child.

TWO LITTLE BLACKBIRDS.

"Two little blackbirds sat upon a stone;

One flew away, and then there was one;

The other flew after and then there was none;

So the poor stone was left all alone."

One of these little birds back again flew;

The other came after, and then there were two;

Says one to the other, pray, how do you do?

Very well, thank you, and, pray, how are you?

|A stone is the barest fact:

But living and wonderful things

Gather to earthly occasion and act

With folded or parting wings.

Birds of the air are they,--

Our knowledge, our thought, our love,--

And the ethers in which they win their way

Are breaths of the heaven above.

Some place and point of the hour,--

The same little fact for two,--

Who knoweth the lasting wonder and power

It holdeth for me and you;

Away in the long-past years,

With trifle of merest chance,

Keeping, through losing, and blinding, and

tears,

The key of its circumstance?

I, left to the narrowed earth,--

You into the great heaven gone,--

And things of our sharing,--our work, our

mirth,--

So lonely to brood upon!

Yet ever, when thought recurs,

With hardly a reckoning why,

To some old, small memory, straightway stirs

That sound of wings in the sky;

And like birds to a resting-place,--

No longer one, but the two,--

Alight the remembrances, face to face,

Alive between me and you;

And heaven grows real and dear,

And earth widens up to heaven;

And all that had vanished, and stayed so

near,

In one marvellous glimpse is given.

For memory is return:

Ourselves are what we have been:

And what we have been together, we learn

Our life doth continue in.

Spread, then, the angel wings!

I lose you not as you go;

Since heart finds heart in the uttermost

things

Two thoughts may revisit so!

TAFFY.

'Taffy was a Welshman,

Taffy was a thief;

Taffy came to my house

And stole a piece of beef:

I went to Taffy's house,

Taffy was n't at home;

Taffy came to my house

And stole a marrow bone:

I went to Taffy's house,

Taffy was in bed;

I took the marrow bone,

And beat about his head."

|Old Time came unto my house of clay,

And pilfered its pride of flesh away:

I knocked at the doors of the years in vain

To ask for its goodliness again.

Old Time came unto me yet once more,

For crueller theft than he thieved before;

Stealing the very marrow and bone

That the strength of my life was builded on.

Old Time! At last thou shalt lie in thy bed,

And thy years and days be buried and

dead;

And the strength of the life to come shall

be

In the great revenge I will have of thee!

MARGERY DAW.

"See, saw! Margery Daw

Sold her bed, and lay upon straw;

Sold her straw, and lay upon dirt;

Was n't she a good-for-naught?"

|O Margery Daw! Mistress Margery Daw!

Not yours the sole lapse that the world ever

saw!

In precisely such willful gradation

I fear me religion and morals and law

Go down, step by step, to the dirt through

the straw,

In the church and the mart and the nation.

A yielding of that, and a dropping of this,--

("With straw fresh and plenty, pray what

is amiss?

The bed may be wider and cleaner;" )

Ah, that's as you make it, and shake it,

you 'll find;

And with slumber forgetful, and luxury

blind,

What you rest in grows meaner and

meaner.

"In righteousness walking," the Scripture

verse goes,--

"They rest in their beds," and find blessed

repose;

And the beautiful contrary diction

Is neither Isaiah's mistake, nor a word

At random declared, to be scoffingly heard,

But a truth in the freedom of fiction.

O Margery Daw! Mistress Margery Daw!

It shall always be gospel, what always was

law:

Some bed-making none may dispense

with,--

In dust of the earth, or in heart of the

heaven,--

And to soul of mankind shall no Sabbath be

given

Save that it lies down and contents with.

TROUBLED WITH RATS.

"Pretty John Watts,

We are troubled with rats;

Will you drive them out of the house?

There are mice, too, in plenty,"

Who feast in the pantry;

But let them stay,

And nibble away;

What harm in a little brown mouse?"

|A curious puzzle haunts

The brain of the commentator,

Whether John Watts, perchance,

Be preacher or legislator.

We 're troubled with rats, we cry:

And who shall drive out the vermin?

Let senate and pulpit try:

Urge edict, and scourge with sermon.

They steal, they riot, they slay:

They are noisy, they are noisome:

Mice in the pantry, you say?

Ah, those little things are toysome!

They only nibble, you see;

They only frolic and scamper:

What harm can it possibly be

A little brown mouse to pamper?

They 're not of the race, John Watts!

From them we need no protection;

They will never develop to rats,

By survival or selection.

And yet, John Watts! John Watts!

Whether in closet or highway,

I doubt me that mice and rats

_Are_ akin, in some sort of sly way;

And as long as the world sins on,

That the odds will be but a quibble

Between the deeds that are done

By brutes that devour--or nibble!

"Little Robin Redbreast sat upon a tree;

Up went the pussy-cat, down came he:

Down came the pussy-cat, away Robin ran;

Says little Robin Redbreast, catch me if you can!

Little Robin Redbreast hopped upon a spade;

Pussy-cat jumped after him, and then he was afraid;

Little Robin chirped and sung, and what did pussy say?

Pussy said, Me-ow! Me-ow! and Robin flew away."

|Little Robin Redbreast sat upon a tree,

Heartsome and glad;

The cheer of life, in the green of life, what-

ever so blithe may be?

Fol de roi, de rol, lad!

Up went the pussy-cat, and down came

he,--

Woe befall for the claws, lad!

The care of life, and the fear of life, it

creepeth so stealthily,--

So threatsome and sad!

And woe befall for the claws, lad!

Down came the pussy-cat, away Robin

ran,

In his scarlet clad;

There may be a day for running away, for

redcoated bird or man.

Fol de roi, de rol, lad!

Says little Robin Redbreast, Catch me if

you can!

Two merry legs to the four, lad!

A quick, bold pair, that scampers fair, is

part of the saving plan,

And a match for the pad

Aprowl on the pitiless four, lad!

Little Robin Redbreast hopped upon a

spade;

This is n't so bad!

All of leafy green, and for joy, I ween, the

world was never made.

Fol de roi, de rol, lad!

Pussy-cat jumped after him, and then he

was afraid;

Ah, what's the use of all, lad?

There 's death in our work, there's fear to

lurk in the places where we played.

What help 's to be had?

And what is the use of all, lad?

Little Robin chirped and sung, the same

brave roundelay;

There's room to be glad!

There's always a light behind the night;

there's never a will but a way;

Fol de roi, de rol, lad!

Little Robin chirped and sung, and what did

pussy say?

Creeping, and stretching the claws, lad?

Pussy said, O-w! P-shaw i Me-ow! for

Robin was off and away.

There's wings to be had!

And fol de rol for the claws, lad!

"When I was a bachelor, I lived by myself,

And all the bread and cheese I got I put upon a shelf.

The rats and the mice, they made such a strife,

I was forced to go to London to get me a wife.

The streets were so broad, and the lanes were so nar-

row

I was forced to bring my wife home in a wheelbarrow.

The wheelbarrow broke, and my wife had a fall,

Down came wheelbarrow, wife, and all."

|Of course it did. Whatever could you pos-

sibly expect, sir?

You chose a quite peculiar style to cherish

and protect, sir!

Your resource in emergency commands my

admiration,

But I wonder was it want--or excess--of

calculation,

That the wheelbarrow broke?

The one-wheeled way gave out, you say?

Indeed, I should have guessed so,

From the very frank preamble of your pre-

cious manifesto!

When all the bread and cheese you got you

shut up in your closet,

Driving such single-blessed team, what

strange amazement was it

That your wheelbarrow broke?

You were managing quite finely till the rats

and mice got at it,

And forced you to the slow resolve, how-

e'er you might combat it

With other prompting, that a wife must be

your choice of crosses

In a world of moth and rust and thieves,

and all provoking losses?

Yes,--the wheelbarrow broke.

When the scramble and the screed began,

you fain would share your trouble,

But in no other sense, it seems, arrange for

going double;

The generous thoroughfares of life were too

wide for your barrow,

And the single footpath in the lane you

plodded was too narrow

For a couple in a yoke.

The old plan was a careful one; but it could

never carry

New needs; you should have thought of

that before you thought to marry;

And still you strove to push it through,

with many a frown and grumble,

Till the poor little wife and all had got a

dreadful tumble,

When the wheelbarrow broke.

Broke midway in the struggle: a providen-

tial mystery:

The usual meek accounting for of such mis-

handled history:

As if it were the method of the wisdom and

the glory

To run the earth on one wheel,--and each

small earthly story,--

Till the wheelbarrow broke!

Ah, friend! of God's mechanics you mistake

the grand solution;

On no weak, single centre runs the perfect

revolution;

But one circuit round the sun,--one self-

circling for the planet,--

And one divine consent of both,--so first

the power began it,

And creation was bespoke.

Be sure you must in everything waste hope

and love and labor,

Moving cheaply by yourself,--nowise

greatly with your neighbor.

Cease, then, with such ill-balance in the

ways of life to wraxle,

And put an equal-turning wheel on each

end of your axle,

Since your wheelbarrow 's broke!

THE FOOTPATH WAY.

"Jog on, jog on, the footpath way,

And merrily jump the stile, O!

A merry heart goes all the day,

Your sad one tires in a mile, O!"

|Who goes to-day by the footpath way,

When with ocean leagues the steamships

play,

And under mountains and over plains

Runs the level thunder of the trains?

Who goes to-day by the footpath way,

When the very babies despise great A,

And swallow, with supercilious smiles,

Whole sentences, like young crocodiles?

Who goes to-day by the footpath way,

Waiting for good things until he can pay,

When with mortgage and loan and instal-

ment plan,

Life is let furnished to every man?

Who goes to-day by the footpath way,

When Moses made awful mistakes, they

say,

And the story of all that began and is

Never happened according to Genesis?

Who goes to-day by the footpath way,

Alone and straitened, with care and de-

lay,

When the world, grown wiser by grace of

God,

Rolls assured toward heaven on the cause-

way broad? .

When things are thus since they must be so,

And nobody stands by himself, you know,

And none may jog onward, and none may

fall

But by force that prevails in the general?

And what are the odds of tear or smile,

Or whether we merrily leap the stile

Or tumble helpless, since over we must,

And the end of all is the "dust to dust?"

Well,--take it so; yet the footpath way

Doth its line through every thoroughfare

lay;

The tramp of the legion may seem to efface,

But the single treading hath left its trace.

You may rush by steam with a seven-league

stride,

Yet the footpath way's in the railroad

ride;

Each goes his own gait, and clears his own

stiles,

And lives by inches, while driven by miles.

You may scorn your penny, and spend your

pound,

No less't will appear, when the day comes

round,

That farthing by farthing the score was

made,

And unto the uttermost shall be paid.

And Moses will stand when philosophies

drop,

And Huxley and Darwin have shut up

shop;

For whatever you jump, and however you

jog,

You can't get away from the decalogue.

Then with faith and fear in the footpath

way,

And with steadfast cheer, trudge on, we

say;

For if ever earth into the kingdom rolls,

'T will be by the saving of single souls!

UP A TREE.

"Oh dear, what can the matter be?

Two old women got up in an apple-tree:

One came down,

And the other stayed up till Saturday."

|I suppose you wonder how it should be

That two old ladies got up in a tree:

Did you never chance the exploit to see?

Perhaps you have noticed pussy-cat go,

With a wrathful look, and a way not

slow,

And a tail very big, and a back up--

so?

Well, that is the type of the thing I mean;

And the apple-bearer, since earth was

green,

The tree of our trouble hath always been.

So when "human warious" fails to agree,

There stands the old stem of iniquity,

And one or both will be "up a tree."

Each in her style: some are stately and

stiff;

Some hiss and spit, and are up in a whiff;

And some hunch along in a moody miff.

It does n't much matter, however it be;

The best of people may get up the tree;

The question is, when they 'll come down,

you see!

An offenseless one will descend straightway;

One half in the wrong for a while may stay;

Clear curstness will roost till the judgment

day!

THE CROOKED MAN.

"There was a crooked man,

And he went a crooked mile;

He found a crooked sixpence

Against a crooked stile:

He bought a crooked cat,

Which caught a crooked mouse;

And they all lived together

In a little crooked house."

|Once begin with a crook,

You 'll go on with a crook;

Crooked ways, crooked luck, crooked peo-

ple.

Crooked eyes, crooked mind,

Crooked guideposts will find;

Yes, a crook in the very church-steeple!

The first mile you make

The initial will take

For all the long leagues that shall follow:

Right and left, fork and swerve,

Any turn that will serve,

Up and down, betwixt hummock and hol-

low.

If you pause at a stile

Or a fence for a while,

Some twist must compel or invite you:

Even sin, I've a doubt,

Were it straight out and out,

Could hardly persuade or delight you.

And a shave, or a bend,

Or a nick, must commend,

For you, every quarter and nickel:

Right pure from the mint,

There were no magic in't

Your trick-loving finger to tickle.

Crooked money will buy

But a crook or a lie,

Whatever the ware that you deal in

Your position in life,

Your companions, your wife,

Or even a playfellow feline

And as thief catches thief

In the common belief,

Be the creature a cat or a woman,

The crooked shall still

Find the crooked at will,

And you 'll see the old saw sayeth true, man.

In kin, neighbors, house,

In a servant or mouse,

She will always put paw on her likeness:

The same rule runs through,

For the false and the true,--

Straight to straight, and oblique to oblique-

ness.

So together, you see,

As you build, you shall be,

Every line of the mould in the casting;

And a nice little world

You 'll have made, when you 've

curled

And squirmed to your state everlasting!

THE FOUR WINDS.

"When the wind is in the east,

'T is neither good for man nor beast;

When the wind is in the north,

The skillful fisher goes not forth;

When the wind is in the south,

It blows the bait in the fishes' mouth;

When the wind is in the west,

Then't is at the very best."

|Life, like the earth, to the east doth run,

Turning her face to the face of the sun.

The wind that is contrary, as she goes,

Is always the bitterest wind that blows;

Smiting the kiss of the shining away,

And beating backward the beautiful day.

The wind that comes from the icy pole

Shutteth up hope in the human soul;

Chiding the heart, and forbidding the will,

And blasting our very beginnings with ill.

Oh, the wind of the north, on its terrible

path,

Is the wind of wreck, and despair, and

wrath!

The breath that blows from the climes of

ease,

From the isles of spice and the bread-fruit

trees,

With its unearned flavors to fill the mouth;

The zephyr that sends from the idle south

Its soft beguiling and treacherous touch,--

Let the soul in her struggle be shy of

such!

But the wind that springs from the hind-

ward side,

And as earth rolls under sweeps over the

tide;

The gust that is vigorous, brave, and true,

Backing you up in whatever you do,

Keen and impelling, the wind of the west,--

Ah, well saith the legend, that breeze is the

best.

THE PIPER AND THE COW.

"There was a piper had a cow,

And he had naught to give her:

So he took up his pipes, and he played her a tune,

Consider, cow,--consider!

The cow considered very well,

And gave the piper a penny;

And bade him play the other tune,--

Corn-rigs are bonny."

|Good folks of the pen, I am sure you 'll

agree

That author and publisher here we may see:

The Piper plays tunes 'twixt the world and

the Cow,

And he has, at the same time, the care of

the mow:

When the crop in the barn shows but little

to feed her,

To the Cow quoth the Piper, Consider, con-

sider!

The Cow is a creature that cheweth the cud;

Recalleth the hill-sides, with daisies be-

stud,

The sweet running waters, the breezes at

play,

While mournfully munching the last lock of

hay:

All the world that she knoweth of fra-

grance and stir

Sealeth up in those dry stems its juices for

her.

So it cometh, forsooth, that because she can

chew

People think it is all she can hunger to do:

Neither Public nor Piper doth fully allow

For the interdependence of mood and of

mow,

Or see how perplexing it may be, alas,

For a Oow to consider between hay and

grass!

Howbeit, if Mooly considereth well,

And giveth the Piper good milk for to sell,

The Piper he maketh his own modest

penny,--

Just one at a time, till he hath a great

many;

And during the while this is coming to pass

Fresh fodder grows plenty, and delicate

grass.

Once more life's a pasture; the season is

June;

The pipes play up cheerly the bonny-rig

tune;

The Cow is in clover; the buttercups hold

Right up to her chin their probation of

gold;

But she knows, all the same, how't will be

when they bid her

The next year, as last year, Consider, con-

sider!

BEHIND THE LOG.

"Pussy sits behind the log; how can she be fair?

Then comes in the little dog: Pussy, are you there?

So, so, dear mistress pussy, pray tell me how you do!

I thank you, little dog, I am very well just now."

|Behind the log, in the reek and mould,

How many poor things are there,

Who else might be sought, and caressed,

and told,

So tenderly, they were fair!

Behind the log, ah, behind the log,

Such only can tell us how

They are glad of a word from a little dog

Who pauses to say Bow-wow!

SHOE AND FIDDLE.

"Cock-a-doodle-doo!

My dame has lost her shoe;

My master's lost his fiddlestick,

And does n't know what to do."

Who's crowing, I wonder, to spread such

a scandal

Of the blithe-tripping dame who hath

dropped off her sandal,

And seemeth all sad and forlornly to

shirk,

Where she used, in good hmnor, to dance

at her work?

Perhaps honest chanticleer simply may

glory

In faithfully giving both sides of the story;

And scorning the loss of the lady to tell

Without owning the miss of the master as

well.

For how, when the fiddlestick 's gone, can

be played

The music, without which the dancing is

stayed?

When the man 's out of tune, the dear

woman, 't is plain,

Must wait till he graciously strikes up again.

Let him hunt for his bow, then, and rosin it

too,

(If really he'd like to be told what to do;)

And I think, with the fiddling, 't will surely

be found

All else will come right for the merry-go-

round!

SWING, SWONG!

"Swing, Swong!

The days are long!

Up hill, and down dale;

Butter is made in every vale."

|Your day will come, though it arrive but

slowly;

There 's cream in all life, set however

lowly;

And if, as Goose philosophy, you doubt

it,

Hear what the little hen found out about

it:--

"Kroo! kroo! I've cramp in my legs,

Sitting so long atop of my eggs;

Never a minute for rest to snatch;

I wonder when they are going to hatch!

Cluck! cluck! listen! sleep!

Down in the nest there's a stir and a

peep.

Everything comes to its luck some day;

I've got chickens! What will folks say?"

SHUTTLECOCK.

"Here we go up, up, up,

And here we go down, down, downy;

Here we go backward and forward,

And here we go round, round, roundy."

|Battledore and shuttlecock!

Hither, and thither, and yon:

Never a flight without a knock,

And so the world goes on.

Shuttlecock and battledore!

When will it all be done,--

The life of the buffet and beat be o'er,

And the life of the wings begun?

THE MAN IN THE WILDERNESS.

"The man in the wilderness, he asked me

How many strawberries grew in the sea:

I answered him, as I thought good,

As many red herrings as grew in the wood."

|Of the face of the world they have found

it out

By what they must fetch and do;

Of the heart of the world they dispute and

doubt,

And yet it is just as true.

Your fish is wholesome, and live, and clean,

And my little fruit is fair;

Though the earth's good Maker might never

mean

That both should be everywhere.

And all for the want of a thought like this,

It comes, and it can but be,

That many a soul 's in the wilderness,

And many adrift at sea.

PRAE AND POST.

"The man in the moon

Came down too soon

To inquire the way to Norwich;

The man in the south,

He burnt his mouth

With eating cold plum porridge."

|The moony men are always in a hurry

That puts sedater people in a flurry,

They get their theories through other media

Than facts of gazetteer or cyclopaedia;

And then, by some unknown, preposterous

gateway,

Rush forth to claim the realizing straight-

way.

Just think of lighting on a foreign planet,

Asking for Norwich before folks began it!

But then, those sleepy souls at the equator

Lose just as much, you see, by starting

later;

Never strike in while anything is hot,--

Wait till the porridge is all out o' the

pot;--

And through their indolence and easy fool-

ing

Burn their mouths, figuratively, in the cool-

ing!

Too soon, too slow, there's nothing comes

out even;

The very sun that travels through the

heaven

Heels o'er the line, now this way and now

that,

And only twice a year can hit it pat.

Even your two eyes make a parallax,

And might mislead you on two different

tracks;

Between them both, the moral, I suppose,

Is that each man should follow his own

nose!

QUITE CONTRARY.

"Mistress Mary, quite contrary,

How does your garden grow?

With silver bells, and cockle shells,

And tulips, all of a row."

|Prithee, tell me, Mistress Mary,

Whence this rhyme of "quite contrary"?

Why should Mother Goose, beholding

All these pleasant blooms unfolding,--

Every prim and pretty border

Standing in such shining order,--

Looking o'er the lovely rows,

Ask you "how your garden grows"?

Mary, so precise and chary,

Are you, anyhow, contrary?

While these sweetly perfect lines

Nod their gentle countersigns,

Spending all your strength on this,

Lest the least thing grow amiss,

Weareth some unseen parterre

Quite a different kind of air?

Through your hating of a weed

Runs there any ill to seed,--

Thistle-blow of petulance,

Bitter blade of blame, perchance,

Or a flaunting stem of pride,

In that other garden-side?

Mary, in our women-hearts

Spring such curious counterparts!

Each her home-plot watching wary,

Lest the faultless order vary

By the dropping of a leaf,

Or a blossom come to grief

From the blasting of the storm,

Or the eating of a worm,

Let us both be certain, Mary,

Nothing dearer goes contrary!

ALONG, LONG, LONG.

"As I was going along, long, long,

A singing a comical song, song, song,

The lane that I went was so long, long, long,

And the song that I sung was so long, long, long,

And so I went singing along."

|It 's all along, and along,

For the earth is bonny, and glad, and wide,

And we 're free to wander, and free to bide,

And we travel with a song.

It's long, it's wearily long!

For the path is narrowed to only a lane;

And we 've sung it over and over again,

That old, monotonous song.

Nay, let us be thankful and strong,

That the breath of life is as long as the day,

And the song is as long as the weariful way,

And so, we 'll go singing along!

FINIS.

_(MOTHER GOOSE, INTERLINEATED.)_

|The white dove sat on the castle wall,

I bent my bow, and shoot her I shall,"--

(The fair bird, truth, and her meanings;)

"I put her in my glove, both feathers and

all;"

(The pretty plumes that her flight let fall;

For I bound in a book my gleanings:)

"I laid my bridle upon the shelf,--

If you want any more, you may sing it

yourself!"

(It's all in the wits and the weenings!)

CONCLUSION.

_(EDITORIAL.)_

|Doubtless I might go on to quote,

With added paraphrase and note,

Precept on precept, line on line,

To instance here the fact divine

That of her children, far and wide,

Wisdom is always justified.

Yet why oppress with proof of that,

Since "verbum sapienti sat"?

Suffice it to have struck the vein,

And shown some specimens of ore;

If any seek for further gain,

The mine still holds abundance more.

A mental pickaxe and a biggin

Are all you need to go to diggin'.

For, as the Swedish seer contends,

All things comprise an inner sense;

There's nothing we can write or say,

In howsoever simple way,

But seems a body, built to hide

The soul that straightway is supplied;

And many a fool, and prophet too,

Hath spoken wiser than he knew.

One parting word, and I am gone:

If I 've prevailed to make you see

These things as they appear to me,

Then have I proved my Goose a Swan

And I, small fledgling of the line,

Yet proud to bear the ancient name,

May, for this ancestress of mine,

Claim place upon the page of fame;

That not a bard of Saxon tongue

More true to nature ever sung:

More surely soothed, more deeply taught,

Or passing fact more keenly caught;

And that--exalted side by side

With him of Avon, in the pride

And love of millions--we should lay

The tribute at her feet to-day

That owns her, in this latter age,

Goose, truly,--but, in savor, Sage!