Chapter V (2)

He saw at once the stain it bore while she turned pale and paler,
"You've been where I forbade you! Now you shall go there _to stay_!
Prepare yourself to die at once!" he cried. The frightened lady
Could only fall before him pleading: "Give me time to pray!"
Just fifteen minutes by the clock he granted. To her chamber
She fled, but stopped to call her sister Anne by the way.

"O, sister Anne, go to the tower and watch!" she cried, "Our brothers
Were coming here to-day, and I have got to die!
Oh, fly, and if you see them, wave a signal! Hasten! hasten!"
And Anne went flying like a bird up to the tower high.
"Oh, Anne, sister Anne, do you see anybody coming?"
Called the praying lady up the tower-stairs with piteous cry.

"Oh Anne, sister Anne, do you see anybody coming?"
"I see the burning sun," she answered, "and the waving grass!"
Meanwhile old Blue-beard down below was whetting up his cutlass,
And shouting: "Come down quick, or I'll come after you, my lass!"
"One little minute more to pray, one minute more!" she pleaded--
To hope how slow the minutes are, to dread how swift they pass!

"Oh Anne, sister Anne, do you see anybody coming?"
She answered: "Yes I see a cloud of dust that moves this way."
"Is it our brothers, Anne?" implored the lady. "No, my sister,
It is a flock of sheep." Here Blue-beard thundered out: "I say,
Come down or I'll come after you!" Again the only answer:
"Oh, just one little minute more,--one minute more to pray!"

"Oh, Anne, sister Anne, do you see anybody coming?"
"I see two horsemen riding, but they yet are very far!"
She waved them with her handkerchief; it bade them, "hasten, hasten!"
Then Blue-beard stamped his foot so hard
it made the whole house jar;
And, rushing up to where his wife knelt, swung his glittering cutlass,
As Indians do a tomahawk, and shrieked: "How slow you are!"

Just then, without, was heard the beat of hoofs upon the pavement,
The doors flew back, the marble floors rang to a hurried tread.
Two horsemen, with their swords in hand,
came storming up the stairway,
And with one swoop of their good swords
they cut off Blue-beard's head!
Down fell his cruel arm, the heavy cutlass falling with it,
And, instead of its old, ugly blue, his beard was bloody red!

Of course, the tyrant dead, his wife had all his vast possessions;
She gave her sister Anne a dower to marry where she would;
The brothers were rewarded with commissions in the army;
And as for Blue-beard's wife, she did exactly as she should,--
She wore no weeds, she shed no tears; but very shortly after
Married a man as fair to look at as his heart was good.

[Color Plate:]

The little brown owl sits up in the Tree,
And if you look well
His big eyes you may see.
He says Whit a whoo, when the night grows dark,
And he hears the dogs
and the little foxes bark.

THE SLEEPING PRINCESS

Versified by Clara Doty Bates

The ringing bells and the booming cannon
Proclaimed on a summer morn
That in the good king's royal palace
A Princess had been born.

The towers flung out their brightest banners,
The ships their streamers gay,
And every one, from lord to peasant,
Made joyful holiday.

Great plans for feasting and merry-making
Were made by the happy king;
And, to bring good fortune, seven fairies
Were bid to the christening.

And for them the king had seven dishes
Made out of the best red gold,
Set thickly round on the sides and covers
With jewels of price untold.

When the day of the christening came, the bugles
Blew forth their shrillest notes;
Drums throbbed, and endless lines of soldiers
Filed past in scarlet coats.

And the fairies were there the king had bidden,
Bearing their gifts of good--
But right in the midst a strange old woman
Surly and scowling stood.

They knew her to be the old, old fairy,
All nose and eyes and ears,
Who had not peeped, till now, from her dungeon
For more than fifty years.

Angry she was to have been forgotten
Where others were guests, and to find
That neither a seat nor a dish at the banquet
To her had been assigned.

Now came the hour for the gift-bestowing;
And the fairy first in place
Touched with her wand the child and gave her
"Beauty of form and face!"

Fairy the second bade, "Be witty!"
The third said, "Never fail!"
The fourth, "Dance well!" and the fifth, "O Princess,
Sing like the nightingale!"

The sixth gave, "Joy in the heart forever!"
But before the seventh could speak,
The crooked, black old Dame came forward,
And, tapping the baby's cheek,

"You shall prick your finger upon a spindle,
And die of it!" she cried.
All trembling were the lords and ladies,
And the king and queen beside.

But the seventh fairy interrupted,
"Do not tremble nor weep!
That cruel curse I can change and soften,
And instead of death give sleep!

"But the sleep, though I do my best and kindest,
Must last for an hundred years!"
On the king's stern face was a dreadful pallor,
In the eyes of the queen were tears.

"Yet after the hundred years are vanished,"--
The fairy added beside,--
"A Prince of a noble line shall find her,
And take her for his bride."

But the king, with a hope to change the future,
Proclaimed this law to be:
That, if in all the land there was kept one spindle,
Sure death was the penalty.

The Princess grew, from her very cradle
Lovely and witty and good;
And at last, in the course of years, had blossomed
Into full sweet maidenhood.

And one day, in her father's summer palace,
As blithe as the very air,
She climbed to the top of the highest turret,
Over an old worn stair

And there in the dusky cobwebbed garret,
Where dimly the daylight shone,
A little, doleful, hunch-backed woman
Sat spinning all alone.

"O Goody," she cried, "what are you doing?"
"Why, spinning, you little dunce!"
The Princess laughed: "'Tis so very funny,
Pray let me try it once!"

With a careless touch, from the hand of Goody
She caught the half-spun thread,
And the fatal spindle pricked her finger!
Down fell she as if dead!

And Goody shrieking, the frightened courtiers
Climbed up the old worn stair
Only to find, in heavy slumber,
The Princess lying there.

They bore her down to a lofty chamber,
They robed her in her best,
And on a couch of gold and purple
They laid her for her rest,

The roses upon her cheek still blooming,
And the red still on her lips,
While the lids of her eyes, like night-shut lilies,
Were closed in white eclipse.

Then the fairy who strove her fate to alter
From the dismal doom of death,
Now that the vital hour impended,
Came hurrying in a breath.

And then about the slumbering palace
The fairy made up-spring
A wood so heavy and dense that never
Could enter a living thing.

And there for a century the Princess
Lay in a trance so deep
That neither the roar of winds nor thunder
Could rouse her from her sleep.

Then at last one day, past the long-enchanted
Old wood, rode a new king's son,
Who, catching a glimpse of a royal turret
Above the forest dun

Felt in his heart a strange wish for exploring
The thorny and briery place,
And, lo, a path through the deepest thicket
Opened before his face!

On, on he went, till he spied a terrace,
And further a sleeping guard,
And rows of soldiers upon their carbines
Leaning, and snoring hard.

Up the broad steps! The doors swung backward!
The wide halls heard no tread!
But a lofty chamber, opening, showed him
A gold and purple bed.

And there in her beauty, warm and glowing,
The enchanted Princess lay!
While only a word from his lips was needed
To drive her sleep away.

He spoke the word, and the spell was scattered,
The enchantment broken through!
The lady woke. "Dear Prince," she murmured,
"How long I have waited for you!"

Then at once the whole great slumbering palace
Was wakened and all astir;
Yet the Prince, in joy at the Sleeping Beauty,
Could only look at her.

She was the bride who for years an hundred
Had waited for him to come,
And now that the hour was here to claim her,
Should eyes or tongue be dumb?

The Princess blushed at his royal wooing,
Bowed "yes" with her lovely head,
And the chaplain, yawning, but very lively,
Came in and they were wed!

But about the dress of the happy Princess,
I have my woman's fears--
It must have grown somewhat old-fashioned
In the course of so many years!

JACK AND JILL.

Little boys, sit still--
Girls, too, if you will--
And let me tell you of Jack and Jill;
For I think another
Such sister and brother
Were never the children of one mother!

For an idle lad,
As he was, Jack had
No traits, after all, that were very bad.
He, was simply Jack,
With the coat on his back
Patched up in all colors from gray to black.

Both feet were bare;
And I do declare
That he never washed his face; and his hair
Was the color of straw--
You never saw
Such a crop--as long as the moral law!

When he went to school,
It was the rule
(Though 'twas hard to say he was really a fool)
To send him at once,
So thick was his sconce,
To the block that was kept for the greatest dunce.

And Jill! no lass
Scarce ever has
Made bigger tracks on the country grass;
For her only fun
Was to romp and run,
Bare-headed, bare-footed, in wind and sun.

Wherever went Jack,
Close on his track,
With hair unbraided and down her back,
Loud-voiced and shrill,
She followed, until
No one said "Jack" without saying "Jill."

But to succeed
In teaching to read
Such a harum-scarum, was work indeed!
And I'm forced to tell
That her way to spell
Her name was with only a single 'l.'

Yet they were content.
One day they were sent
To the hill for water, and they went.
They did not drown,
But Jack fell down,
With a pail in his hand, and broke his crown!

And Jill, who must go
And always do
Exactly as Jack did, tumbled too!
Just think, if you will,
How they rolled down hill--
Straw-headed Jack and bare-footed Jill!

But up Jack got,
And home did trot,
Nor cared whether Jill was hurt or not;
While his poor bruised knob
Did burn and throb,
Tear falling on tear, sob following sob!

He could run the faster,
So a paper plaster
Had bound up the sight of his disaster
Before Jill came;
And the thoughtful dame,
For a break in _her_ head, had fixed the same.

But Jill came in,
With a saucy grin
At seeing the plight poor Jack was in;
And when she saw
That bundle of straw
(His hair) bound up with a cloth, and his jaw

Tied up in white,
The comical sight
Made her clap her hands and laugh outright!
The dame, perplexed
And dreadfully vexed,
Got a stick and said, "I'll whip her next!"

How many blows fell
I will not tell,
But she did it in earnest, she did it well,
Till the naughty back
Was blue and black,
And Jill needed a plaster as much as Jack!

The next time, though,
Jack has to go
To the hill for water, I almost know
That bothering Jill
Will go up the hill,
And if _he_ falls again, why, of course _she_ will!

LITTLE BO-BEEP.

What was Bo-Peep? Can anyone guess?
Why, little Bo-Peep was a shepherdess!
And she dressed in a short white petticoat,
And a kirtle of blue, with a looped-up look,
And a snowy kerchief about her throat,
And held in her hand a crook.

What eyes she had, the little Bo-Peep!
They had tears to laugh with, and tears to weep.
So fringy, and shy, and blue, and sweet,
That even the summer skies in color,
Or the autumn gentians under her feet,
Less tender were and duller.

Now, a shepherdess ought to watch her sheep;
But the careless little girl, Bo-Peep,
Was hunting for late wild strawberries,
The sweetest her tongue had ever tasted;
They were few in number, and small in size,
Too good, though, to be wasted.

And in that way the little Bo-Peep,
The first she knew, had lost her sheep!
To the top of the nearest knoll she ran,
The better to look the pasture over;
She shaded her face, and called, "Nan! Nan!"
But none of them could discover.

About and about went little Bo-Peep;
Her feet grew tired, the hills were steep;
And in trying her fears to overcome
She sighed, "I don't know where to find 'em.
But let 'em alone, and they'll come home,
And bring their tails behind 'em!"

So down sat trustful little Bo-Peep,
And in a minute was fast asleep!
Arm over her head, and her finger-ends
All red with the fruit she had been eating;
While her thoughts were only of her lost friends,
And she dreamed she heard them bleating.

'Twas a happy dream for little Bo-Peep;
As she lay on the grass, her flock of sheep,
With scatter and clatter and patter of feet,
Came hastening from all ways hither, thither;
First one would bleat, then another would bleat,
Then "b-a-a--a-a!" all together!

But ah, it was only while Bo-Peep
Was tired enough to stay asleep
That her flock was with her; for when she woke,
Rubbing her eyes to see the clearer,
She found that her dream was all a joke,
And they were nowhere near her.

Tearful and sorrowful grew Bo-Peep!
Down from her lashes the tears would creep;
But she started out, as there was need,
Before it should be too dark to find them;
She found them indeed, but it made her heart bleed,
For they'd left their tails behind them!

Did she laugh or cry, our little Bo-Peep,
To see such a comical crowd of sheep?
There were plenty of bodies, white and fat;
And plenty of wide mouths, eating, eating;
Plenty of soft wool, and all that:
And plenty of noisy bleating;

Yet all of them stood, and tried to keep
At a little distance from Bo-Peep!
They knew her voice, and were very glad
To have her come with her crook to find them,
But they felt so strangely because they had
Not a single tail behind them.

The innocent-faced old mother-sheep,
Who bleated and stamped to greet Bo-Peep,
With their tails shorn close, were odd enough;
But the very oddest of all was when a
Group of the lambs went galloping off,
All legs, and hadn't any!

Though sorry enough was little Bo-Peep
That the tails were lost from her pretty sheep,
She murmured, "I'll find them easily,
And there's very little good in crying!"
So away she went, and at last, in a tree,
She saw them hung a-drying!

She piled them up in a great white heap,
And the best she could do, poor little Bo-Peep!
Was to try to fasten them where they grew--
Or that was, at least, what she intended,--
But if she did it I never knew,
For now my story is ended!

[Color Plate:]

Buz, Buz, Buz--says the Great buzzing Bee.
Go away butterfly--this flower is for me.
Why? Why? Why? says the little butterfly,
If you may sit on this flower, why may'nt I?

HOP-O-MY-THUMB

Once on a time there was a fagot-maker,
And he had seven sons.
Who could be aught but poor to feed and shelter
So many little ones?

For all were merely lads; not one was able
To earn the crust of bread,
Though scant it might be, coarse and black and humble,
With which he must be fed.

And, worst of all, the youngest one was puny,
So odd, and still, and slight,
That father, mother, and the other brothers,
Thought him not over bright.

So small he was when he was born, so tiny
Since then he had become,
That--for he was no bigger than your finger--
They called him Hop-o'-my-Thumb.

Now at this time, for days and days together,
There fell no drop of rain;
The corn shrunk on the stalks; and in the sunshine
Rustled the shriveled grain;

As if a fire had swept across the meadows
They shriveled in the drouth;
And what this meant for the poor fagot-maker
Was famine, without doubt.

One night he sat before a smouldering fire,
His head bowed down with grief,
Trying with those weak wits of his to compass
Some scheme for their relief.

His wife above the feeble embers hovered,
And wrung her toil-hard hands;
She knew there was no help for their starvation,
No hope in making plans.

At last he spoke: "Ah, bad luck to the trying,
I cannot find them food!
To-morrow morning with me to the forest
I'll take the little brood!

"I cannot bear to watch this piece meal starving,
So, while they run and play,
Or gather fagots for me, or pick berries
To eat, I'll come away!"

"Oh!" groaned the wife, "I'm sure the wolves will eat them,
Poor dears--poor little dears!
Yet do as you think best--we all must perish!"
Then went to bed in tears.

Meanwhile, though all the rest were sleeping soundly,
Hop-o'-my-Thumb had heard,
And at the thought of wolves and woods, in terror
His little heart was stirred;

And so he lay and planned; and early dressed him,
And ran with all his might
Down to the river, where he filled his pockets
With pebbles small and white.

And, as they started for the wood, he lingered
Somewhat behind, and when
They came to dismal places, dropped in secret
A pebble now and then.

Thick grew the trees; 'twas twilight in their shadows,
Although broad day without;
But gay the laddies at the fagot-picking
Went scampering about,

And chattering like a flock of busy sparrows;
Till, having hungry grown,
They turned to ask their mother for their dinner,
And found they were alone!

Then all but Hop-o'-my-Thumb wailed out affrighted.
"Don't cry so hard!" said he.
"I'll find the path, if you'll but keep together
And try to follow me!"

By the white stones strewn on the dead pine needles,
Though night had fallen, he soon
Led the way out, and spied their humble cottage,
Low lying 'neath the moon.

They hurried near, and, pausing at the window,
Hop-o'my-Thumb climbed up,
And peeped within; his father and his mother
Were just about to sup.

Some one had paid them two gold guineas
On an old debt; and when
They went for beef for two, they were so hungry
They bought enough for ten.

Quick as a flash the ravenous seven went rushing
Pell-mell into the house,
Nor left, of the fine roast upon the table,
Enough to feed a mouse.

It all went well long as the money lasted.
When that was gone, once more
The father planned to take them to the forest,
And leave them as before.

Hop-o'-my-Thumb, who heard again the plotting,
Crept from his trundle-bed,
But in the place of pebbles in his pockets
Put only crumbs of bread.

Again they went, through brier and through thicket,
Into the darksome wood;
Again he dropped his clues along the pathway
Behind him when he could.

But when once more they found themselves deserted,
And little Hop-o'-my-Thumb
Felt sure to lead them out, he found the finches
Had eaten every crumb!

Then what to do! They wandered hither, thither,
For hours in dread and fear,
Until at last they saw, with fitful glimmer,
A feeble light appear.

It shone but faintly, like a single candle,
But, trudging towards the ray,
They reached a house and knocked; the door was opened
After a brief delay,

And a kind woman asked them what they wanted.
They said: "To stay all night."
"Run, run away! The faster you run the better!"
She answered in affright.

"An Ogre lives here, cruel and bloody minded!
He eats up little boys!
Run, run! I hear him coming from the mountains,
I know him by the noise!"

"But we can't run, we are so faint and tired!"
Hop-o'-my-Thumb began--
"'Tis all the same whether the wolves shall eat us,
Or your good gentleman."

And so she took them in, fed them, and hid them
All underneath her bed;
And in a minute more they heard approaching,
Tramp! tramp! an awful tread!

It was the Ogre coming home; his supper
Was steaming nice and hot,--
Two calves upon a spit, ten rabbits roasting,
A whole sheep in the pot.

He banged the door wide open, sniffed and snorted,
Then, in a dreadful voice,
Roared out, while his poor wife stood by and trembled,
"I smell seven little boys!"

In vain she told him 'twas the mutton scorching;
The veal had browned too fast;
He searched the house, peering around and under,
And reached the bed at last,

Then dragged them one by one out, fairly shouting
At little Hop-o'my-Thumb,
Saying the lads would make, towards a dinner,
Six mouthfuls and one crumb.

"O, leave them till to-morrow!" cried the woman;
"You've meat enough to-night."
"Well, so I have," he said, "I'll wait a little.
Ah! ugh! they're plump and white."

Now it so chanced the Ogre had seven daughters,
And all slept in one bed,
In a large room, and each wore for a nightcap
A gold crown on her head.

And Hop-o'-my-Thumb, when all the house was quiet,
Into their chamber crept,
And the gold head-bands for himself and brothers
Stole from them while they slept.

Wicked and sly it was; he knew the Ogre
Would, no doubt, rise at dawn,
And, being but half awake, would kill the children
Who had no night-caps on.

And, sure enough, he did! He was so drowsy,
And fogs so veiled the sun,
That, whetting up a huge, broad-bladed dagger,
He slew them, every one.

Then Hop-o'-my-Thumb, awakening his brothers,
Whispered: "Make haste and fly!"
Without a word they did as they were bidden,
In twinkling of an eye,

Out in the drizzly mist of a gray morning,
Off through the chill and dew,
And none too soon! Within an hour the Ogre
His dreadful blunder knew.

"Wife, fetch my seven-league boots at once!" he shouted;
"I'll catch the vipers yet!"
He stamped his feet into the magic leather
With many a muttered threat;

And off he started, over hill and valley,
Seven leagues at every stride;
The children saw him like a giant shadow,
But they could only hide.

He scoured the country, rumbling like a tempest;
Far, near, they heard his roar,
Until at last his seven-league feet grew tired,
And he could go no more.

And down he lay to rest him for a minute--
The day had grown so hot--
Close to a rock where lay the seven children,
Although he knew it not.

Hop-o'-my-thumb spoke softly to his brothers:
"Run! fast as ever you can,
And leave me to take care of Mr. Ogre."
And hurry-scurry they ran.

And Hop-o'-my-Thumb, creeping from out his crevice,
With greatest caution drew
The Ogre's boots off (these would shrink or widen
Just as you wished them to),

And put them on himself. Then he decided
To hasten to the king;
And, as he traveled towards the royal palace,
Each boot was like a wing.

There was a war. The king had need of service
In carrying the news.
He heard his tale, and said, "I'll use this fellow
Who wears the magic shoes."

So little Hop-o'-my-Thumb made mints of money,
And his whole family
Lived very easy lives, and from his bounty
Grew rich as rich could be.

As for the Ogre, in his sleep he tumbled
Down from that ledge of rock,
And was so bumped and bruised he never rallied,
But perished from the shock.

And Hop-o'-my-Thumb, whose influence in high places
Was certain to prevail,
Made the kind Ogress, who had hidden and fed them,
Duchess of Draggletail.

THE BABES IN THE WOOD.

Come, list to my story,
More sorry, by far,
To her who must tell it,
And you who will hear it,
Than all others are!

'Tis the darling of each, who
Has spirit so mild
As to grieve for the Human--
The sad man or woman,
Or desolate child!

Of eyes, my dear children,
Yours are not the first,
Through whose teary lashes,
In soft, pitying splashes,
The warm drops have burst

At hearing it. Many,
For hundreds of years,
Have in the same fashion
Their heartfelt compassion
Shown thus--with their tears!

A dying father in his arms
Two children did enfold.
The eldest one, a little boy,
Was only three years old;
Even less than that had served to tint
The baby's head with gold.

The mother, too, lay ill to death,
No human power might save,
And to her darlings, that same hour,
Her farewell blessing gave.
Father and mother--one in life--
Were laid in the same grave.

But, ere the latest breath was drawn,
The father's brother came--
Nearest of kin, upon whose love
The orphaned ones had claim--
And he made oath to cherish them
As his own blood and name.

The will devised three hundred pounds
A year unto the son,
Three hundred, on her marriage-day,
To Jane, the little one.
Thus it was from the uncle's greed
That trouble first begun.

For if, by chance, they both should die,
He was to have their gold;
He felt no love for either child--
His heart was hard and cold.
And, while he promised fair, he planned
A scheme both bad and bold.

A twelvemonth did his darksome mind
Plot for the dreadful deed.
Two brutal ruffians he hired
To help him in his need;
And yet, so secret were his ways,
None knew to intercede.

He formed a wily, plausive tale,
And told it everywhere,
How the two children were to go,
Under the best of care--
Two friends of his--for holiday
To London, for the fair.

The horses stood before the gate,
The ruffians twain astride;
And gay with scarlet girth and rein
They started, side by side.
O, blithe the babies' spirits were,
That they could have a ride!

For every pretty sight they saw,
For every sound they heard,
The boy had noisy laugh or shout,
The girl had winsome word--
He questioned, never satisfied,
She chattered like a bird.

Meanwhile each ruffian surly sat,
In dark and restless mood;
Little the prattlers, in their joy,
Such silence understood,
As on through the warm early day
They rode towards the wood.

They reached the leafy wilderness,
And then the way grew wild;
But ever with new glee the babes
The gathering gloom beguiled.
Until, at last, quite cheered and won,
One of the ruffians smiled.

Love had o'ercome within his breast
His wicked avarice.
"I will not kill the little things,"
He said, "for any price!"
Then passed hot words between the two,
But only once or twice,

For blows fell, and the kindly one
Dropped to the earth and died;
The children sank upon the ground,
Trembling and terrified,
And clung together, wondering,
And moaned, and sobbed, and cried.

Then he who lived led them away,
Both shivering with dread;
They begged for food; he paused a space;
"Stay here awhile," he said,
"And I will go into the town
At once, and fetch you bread."

He went. In their sweet innocence
They trusted to his word;
Meanwhile, the sparkling morning sun
With a grey cloud was blurred;
And long, in vain, they waited there,
Nor cried again, nor stirred!

How can I write the mournful end--
And tell how, up and down,
At last, by hunger driven, they stray
Over the mosses brown--
She clutching at his little coat,
He clinging to her gown?

More than one day--more than one night,
Comes on them there alone!
They search for blackberries, so weak
And starving they are grown,
Now through a thicket of wild brier,
Now 'gainst a hindering stone!

Then they lie down to die, poor babes!
The cruel ground receives
Their little bodies as a bed;
Long time the south wind grieves
Above them; and a hovering bough
A pall of shadow weaves;
And robin-red-breasts pity them,
And cover them with leaves!

THE THREE LITTLE PIGS

Ah, very, very poor was she--
Old Dame Pig, with her children three!
Robust, beautiful little ones
Were those three sons,
Each wearing always, without fail,
A little fanciful knot in his tail.

But never enough of sour or sweet
Had they to eat;
And so, one day, with a piteous squeak,
Did the mother speak:
"My sons, your fortune you must seek!"
And out in the world, as they were sent,
The three pigs went.

Trotting along, the first one saw
A man who carried a bundle of straw.
"Give me some straw for a house and bed,"
The little pig said.
Straightway, not even waiting a bit,
The kind man did as he was bid;
And the little pig built a house of it.

But he was no more than settled, before
A wolf came along and knocked at the door,
Tap-tap, and cried,
"Little pig, little pig, let me come in!"
But the pig replied,
"No, no, by the hair of my chinny, chin, chin!"
The old wolf grumbled, and added beside,
"Then I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house in!"

He was gray and big,
And he huffed and he puffed and he blew the house in,
And he ate up the poor little pig.

The very next day,
All blithe and gay,
The second little pig went marching away
To the world to find his fortune. And when
He met two men,
Who bore on their shoulders bunches of furze,
"My gentle sirs,
Give me some furze for a house and bed!"
The little pig said.
They gave it him freely, every whit,
And the little pig built a house of it.

But he could no more than get in before
The wolf came along and knocked at the door:
"Little pig, little pig, let me come in!"
But the pig replied,
"No, no, by the hair of my chinny, chin, chin!"
Then the old wolf growled, and added beside,
"Then I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house in!"

He was fierce and big,
And he huffed and he puffed,
And he puffed and he huffed,
And he blew the house in,
And he ate up the poor little pig.

And then the third little pig went out,
With his curly tail and his saucy snout,
Up to all kinds of pranks and tricks;
And he met a man with a load of bricks,
And he said, "I suppose
You are perfectly willing to give me those?"

By the begging he got them every one,
And in a trice
Was the house begun,
And very shortly the house was done,
Plastered and snug and nice.

And along came the same wolf as before,
And knocked at the door,
Thump, thump, and cried,
"Little pig, little pig, let me come in!"
But the pig replied,
"No, no, by the hair of my chinny, chin, chin!"
Then the wolf filled his cheeks out on each side,
Like a bellows, to blow,
And he howled, "O ho!
Then I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house in!"

Well, he huffed and he puffed and he huffed,
And he puffed and he huffed and he puffed,
But with all his huffing,
And all his puffing,
The house would _not_ fall in!

And so, despite
His appetite,
He was forced to go with never a bite,
And for once, at least, was cheated out
Of the little pig with the saucy snout.

Of the wily kind,
Though, he was, and he whined,
"I know, little pig, where we can find
Some nice fresh turnips!" Pig grunted, "Where?"
"O, over at Smith's, in his home field--
It's not far there.
If it's pleasant weather
Shall we go together
To-morrow at six?" "Yes," piggie squealed.

But what should the little pig contrive
But to rise at five
Next day, and to go through the early dew
To the field where the turnips grew;
They were plenty and sweet,
And he ate of them all he cared to eat,
And took enough for his dinner, and then
Went home again.

The wolf came promptly at six o'clock,
Gave a friendly knock,
And asked the pig, "Are you ready to go?"
"Why, I'd have you know
I've already been there, and beside
I've enough for dinner," the pig replied.

The wolf saw then
He was cheated again;
But, "I know where's a lovely apple tree,"
In a winsome voice said he.
And the wise little pig, from where he sat,
Peered out and smiled, "Where's that?"
"At the Merry Garden; if you'll be fair,
And it's pleasant weather,
We two together
At five in the morning will go there."

Ah, sly and cunning
The little pig was, for as early as four
He was out next day, and running, running,
Hoping to get the apples before
The wolf was up. But the apple-tree
Proved twice as far as he thought 'twould be.

He climbed the boughs in the greatest haste,
And thought to himself, "I'll only taste,
As a bit of a lunch."
But soon, crunch, crunch,
He had eaten a score--then what should he see
But the big gray wolf just under the tree!

Yes, there he stood,
Trying to look as meek as he could,
And he said, "Little pig, are the apples good?"
Pig thought he should fall from where he sat,
So heavy his heart went pit-a-pat.
But he answered, "The nicest under the sun!
I'll throw down one!"

The wolf ran after it as he threw it,
And, before he knew it,
The pig was out of the tree, and as fleet
As his four little feet
Could scamper he fled,
On, into his house, while after him sped
The wolf, with a savage voice and face,
In a furious chase.
He was long and slim,
But the little pig proved too swift for him.

Still, he came again the very next day,
And he knocked and called "Little pig, I pray,
You will go to the Shanklin Fair with me.
Be ready, and I will call at three!"

Now the pig, as he had always done,
Got the start of the wolf, and went at one.
At the fair he bought him a butter churn,
And with it started out to return;
But who should he meet--
The very first one he chanced to spy--
Upon the street,
But the wolf! and it frightened him dreadfully.

So he crept inside
His churn to hide;
It began to roll; he began to ride;
Around and around,
Along the ground,
He passed the wolf with a bump and bound.

He was frightened worse than he'd frightened the pig,
By the funny, rumbling rig;
And he fled in dismay
Far out of his own and the little pig's way.

Yet in due time--for I suppose
He was nearly starved--his pattering toes
Were heard again at the little pig's door.
Such a haunted look his visage wore,
When the tale he told
Of the beast that bumped and bounded and rolled,
Up hill, down hill, and everywhere,
And chased him away from the Shanklin Fair!

Then, with all his might,
The little pig laughed outright,
Giving a jocular, scornful shout
With his saucy snout,
As he cried, "O, how would you like to learn
'Twas a churn, and that I was in the churn!"

Then the wolf exclaimed, "I hate your tricks,
Your bolted door and your house of bricks!
I'll eat you anyway--that I'll do!
I'll come down the chimney after you!"

But the pig built a fire, high and hot,
And filled with water his dinner pot,
And just as the wolf came down the flue,
Scraping his ribs as he slipped through,
What did he do
But lift the cover, and let him fall
Into the pot--hide, hair and all!

And what next he did
Was to slide the lid
Quick over the pot; "It's boiling hot--
It'll maybe cook him, and maybe not,"
He cried in glee,
"But I'll let him be,
And when it is dinner-time I'll see!"

That day he dined quite to his mind;
And he mused to himself, "I'm half inclined
To think, by the hair of my chinny, chin, chin,
That _this_ is the best way to take wolves in!"

GOODY TWO-SHOES.

Versified by Mrs. Clara Doty Bates.

Two-Shoes, Two-Shoes,
Little Goody Two-Shoes!
Do you know about her? Well,
I'm ready now to tell
How the little creature came
By so odd a name.

It was very long ago,
In the days of good Queen Bess,
When upon the cold world's care,
Fatherless and motherless,

There were thrown two helpless ones,
Destitute as they could be;
Tom, they called the little boy,
And the girl was Margery.

Many a day they cried for food
When the cup-board shelves were bare;
Many an hour they roamed the streets
Scarcely knowing why or where.

As to kindred, all were dead;
As to shelter, they had none;
As to shoes, Tom had a pair;
Little Margery had but one!

One-Shoe, One-Shoe,
Think of Little One-Shoe!
Think how never a pretty boot
Was buttoned on the tender foot;
Nor yet a slipper, fairy-light,
With dainty knot or buckle bright!

But above our human woes
Bends an always loving Heaven;
And to every hungry cry
Is there somewhere answer given.

Kind eyes watched the wandering ones,
Pitied their forlorn distress;
Grieved to note Tom's ragged coat,
And Margery's tattered dress.

'Twas the village clergyman,
And he sought them tenderly,
Gave them warm, soft clothes to wear.
Ordered shoes for Margery.

"Two shoes, two shoes,
Oh, see my two shoes!"
So did little Margery cry,
When the cobbler came to try
If they fitted trim and neat
On the worn and tired feet:
That is how and why she came
By so strange a name.

Tom went off to London town;
Margery went to village school;
Apt she was, and quick to learn,
Docile to the simplest rule.

Out from the long alphabet
Letters looked at her and smiled,
Almost seemed to nod and speak,
Glad to know so bright a child,

Ranged themselves in winsome words;
Then in sentences. Indeed,
Quite before she knew the fact,
Margery had learned to read.

Two-Shoes, Two-Shoes,
Eager Goody Two-Shoes!
When the magic art she knew,
She planned to help poor children too;
And those who had no chance to learn
Their letters, she would teach in turn.

Now, in the days of good Queen Bess,
Few books were printed, very few--
None, scarcely, for the little folks;
So Margery studied what to do.

She cut from proper blocks of wood
Sets of the letters: A, B, C;
And in some cosy shady place
Would group the children round her knee

And teach them--not alone to read,
But how to spell, and how to sing;
And how to practice gentle ways,
And to be kind to everything.

Two-Shoes, Two-Shoes,
So grew Goody Two-Shoes!
First a maiden, comely, sweet;
Then a woman, wise, discreet;
Called now, as a courtesy,
Little Mrs. Margery.

An honored, faithful teacher she!
And every year an added grace,
More fair than youth's fair roses are,
Blossomed upon her charming face.

All living things seemed drawn to her:
A helpless lamb, whose dam had died,
She reared and tended till he ran
Tame as a kitten at her side;

A sky-lark stolen from its nest
Sang on her finger, though he knew
His unclipped wings were free to soar
At will into the heaven's blue;

A raven which had fought and torn
Its captor's hand with savage beak,
And which at first could only croak,
She taught in gracious words to speak;

Jumper, the dog, watched all her steps
With constant eyes and jealous love;
A great cat purred and rubbed her dress;
And on her shoulder perched a dove.

Two-Shoes, Two-Shoes,
Ah me, Margery Two-Shoes!
Maybe the days of good Queen Bess
Were times of wisdom; nevertheless,
Witches (the people said) might be--
And a witch they thought our Margery!

'Twas Nickey Noodle, a simpleton,
Who raised the cry, "A witch, a witch!"
Then she was summoned to the court,
Amused, or grieved, she scarce knew which.

Plenty of friends, however, proved
How false was Justice Shallow's plea
That "She _must_ be a witch, because--
Because of the raven, don't you see?"

Sir Edward Lovell, a baronet,
Who stood in court and saw her grace
Her sweet good sense, her dignity,
And the pure beauty of her face,

Sighed heavily in his high-born breast
As Mrs. Margery was set free,
Saying, "I _know_ she is a witch,
For, ah, she so bewitches me!"

He watched her go her quiet ways,
And vowed, whatever might betide,
If his best love could win her heart
And hand, then she should be his bride.

Two-Shoes, Two-Shoes--
Lady Lovell, if she choose!
Her the noble lover wooed,
Humbly, as a lover should,
Eagerly, as lover ought,
With entire heart and thought.

What her answer, all may guess,
For the old church chime that rung
Its next wedding anthem sung
With a most delighted tongue:

_"Two-Shoes, Two-Shoes,
Wedding day of Two-Shoes!
Barefoot lass but yesterday,
Lady Lovell is to-day!
Two-Shoes, Two-Shoes,
Lovely Lady Two-Shoes!"_

Who is this that rides so fast,
With plumed hat and cheek of brown,
With golden trappings on his horse,
Gallant and gay from London town?

He hears the bells, he strikes his spurs,
The flecks of foam are on his rein,
The dust of journey whitens him,
He leans to see the bridal train!

Two-Shoes, Two-Shoes,
Lady Goody Two-Shoes!
Tom it is, come home once more!
Even now he's at the door,
Rich and grand as any king--
Come to bless the wedding ring!

SAARCHINKOLD!

Nose to window,
Still as a mouse,
Watching grampa
"Bank the house."
Out of the barrow he shovels the tan,
And he piles and packs it as hard as he can
"All about the house's feet,"
Says "Phunny-kind,"
Nose to the window,
Eager and sweet.
Now she comes to the entry door:
"Grampa--_what are you do that for_?
Are you puttin' stockin's on to the house?"
(Found her tongue, has Still-as-a-Mouse.)

Grandpa twinkles out of his eyes,
Straightens his aching back, and tries
To look as solemn as Phunny-kind.
But the child says:
"Grampa, is it the wind
That keeps you a-shakin' an' shakin' so?"
Then the old man, shaking the more, says: "No!
But I'm bankin' the house, Miss Locks-o-gold,
To keep out the dreadful--
_Sa-archin' Cold_!"

And away he chuckles, barrow and all:
"_'Mazin' thing_," he says, "_to be small_!
Folks says the best things 't ever they do
Afore they git old 'nough to know!"

Phunny-kind puzzles her queer, wee brain
As slowly she toddles in again:
--"Is she a nawful, ugly, old
Giant--or what--this
'Sa-archinkold?'"

She stands by the clock in the corner, now:
"I wonder," she says, "does the old clock know?"
But the great clock
TICKS!
And the _grim_ clock
TOCKS!
Away at the top of his ghostly box;
The round Full Moon (in his forehead) smiles;
But with all his wisdom, or all his wiles,
Though he knows very well,
He never will tell
Should he tick and tock till a century old
What they mean by
The Sa-archinkold!

In the great, square room, by a cheerful flame
In the fire-place, bending above her frame,
Is grandma, snapping her chalky string
Across and across a broad, bright thing.
"Gramma, what you are a-doin' here?"
"I'm a-makin' a 'comfort,' my little dear;
For grandpa and I are a-gittin' old.
And we're afeared o' the Sa-archin' Cold."

When the daylight fades, and the shadows fall
Flickering down from the fire-dogs tall,
Comes Uncle Phil, from his school and his books.
"Uncle Phil, I know by your smile-y looks--
You'll let me--get on your knee--jus' _so_--
An' you'll tell me somefing I want to know:
'Cos, you see, Uncle Phil, I've _got_ to be told
_Who she is_--they call her
'The Sa-archinkold.'"

Uncle Phil looks up;
Uncle Phil looks down;
And he wags his head;
And he tries to frown;
But at last he cries
In a great surprise:
"Why, yes! to be sure! to be sure, I'll tell
For I know the old dame, of old, right well:

"Now Jack is a fine old fellow, you see;
Spicy, and full of his pranks, is he:
Snipping off noses, just for fun,
And sticking 'em on again when he is done;
A-pinching at pretty, soft ears and cheeks;
A-wakin' folks up with his jolly freaks;
But a--h! for your life
Look sharp for his wife!

"For she comes after, and comes to stay--
Welcome or not--for a month and a day!
She plots, and she plans, she sneaks, and she crawls
Till she finds a way through the thickest of walls!"

"ZH----ZH!
Did you ever meet a
More dreadful creatur!
She's Jack Frost's wife!
And the plague of his life!

"ZH!--ZH!
I'm all of a shiver,
Heart, lungs and liver!
When I think of that old
SAARCHINKOLD!

"Oh--oo!" cries Phunny-kind, "how does she look?"
"To be sure! I'll picture her just like a book.
--Her nose--is an icicle, sharp and strong,
To poke in at every hole and crack;
Her eyes gleam frostily all night long--
But who knows whether they're blue or black?

"She brings on her back
An astonishing pack.
Like a blacksmith's bellows, marvellous big;
And while she dances a horrible jig,
Out of this bellows a doleful tune
She skre--eels away, in the dark o' the Moon!

"But if ever she works with a wicked will,
'Tis when she is quiet, and sly, and still.
She pretends that old Jack leaves his work but half done,
She '_wishes for once he'd be quit of his fun_!'
So she follows him up with her sour, ugly phiz,
And wherever she goes, you may know she means 'biz.

"Look sharp when she peeps through the crack o' the door!
Look sharp when she hides away under the floor!
She'll crack the bare ground with a terrible bang!
And out from the clap boards the nails will go, spang!

"She'll spoil the potatoes (if once she gets in),
And she'll shake all the people whose bed-clothes are thin!
She'll stop the old clock in the dead o' the night,
And make him hold up both his hands in a fright;
And--what she _won't_ do,
Is more than _I_ know!

"ZH----Zh!
I'm all of a shiver,
Heart, lungs, and liver!
Jist always, whiniver
I think of that o--o--ld
SA-ARCHINKOLD!"

Then Phunny-kind shivers a little, too;
And heaves a deep sigh; and says, "Are you froo?"
Then slides down, quietly, to the floor,
Doubtfully watching the outer door.

She says, "Is my bed got a fing like you said--
A 'comfut'--vat I can put over my head?"
"(Oh, Phil! naughty boy!)" says grandma;--"yes, dear
Your bed's got a 'comfut,' so never you fear--
And you should be in it, for see, the old clock
Points just to your bed-time, and says 'tick-tock!'"

"Well, grampa, I'm goin' as quick as I can,
If you'll only give me a handful of 'tan.'
"What _for_?" "Oh, I'm jus' goin' to take it to bed,
'Cos, I recollec' every word that you said,
And gramma, and Phil; for _all of you told_
How '_comfuts_,' and _'tan'll' keep out_
SA-ARCHINKOLD!"

Errata

Missing or invisible punctuation has been silently supplied.

From the time it was put in the ground, [gound]
Then, with a relish, stood chuckling and grinning, [are lish]
Why, a nest, of course, and an egg or so,
[_text damaged: reconstructed from "an egg o o"_]
"I wonder," she says, "does the old clock know?"
[_final close quote missing_]
"She'll spoil the potatoes (if once she gets in),
[_open quote missing_]
"(Oh, Phil! naughty boy!)" says grandma;--"yes, dear
If you'll only give me a handful of 'tan.'"
[_close quotes missing_]

Text unchanged:

"Caspar," "Balthassar," "Melchoir"--

Down under t'was dark as a mine;

If you may sit on this flower, why may'nt I?

Line division unchanged (_The Gold Spinner_):

The second day 'twas the same;
But the third a messenger
Came in from the mountains to the queen,