Chapter III

The years have passed, and Gerda,
Now grown a maiden tall,
Looks from the latticed casement
High up the palace wall;
But not for flash and flutter
Of snowy wings looks she—
Thro’ rain or sun
No longer come
The white doves merrily;
For peace and they have flown afar,
And all the land is red with war.

Great Ivar, dreaded Ivar,
Who rules the northern coast,
Across his rocky borders
Has led a conquering host;
And smiling field and hamlet
Despoiling as they came,
Five months before the city walls
The savage hordes have lain.
The glimmer of their camp-fires
The Princess Gerda sees,
Their tents, their hostile ensigns
A-floating in the breeze.
She looks forth from her window
With eyes grown used to tears;
And as she looks she listens—
What sound is that she hears?

A crash, a shriek, a shouting—
A battlement gives way;
Swift thro’ the breach come rushing
The foe in dire array,
And sudden as a thunder-storm
Sweeps o’er the smiling day,
The air is dark and clamorous
And wild with deadly fray.

But calm and clear
Does Gerda hear
His orders ring,
As the brave King,
Unfaltering,
Keeps the fierce foe at bay.

But see! he falls!
“The King is down!”
Who’ll guard the walls?
Who’ll save the town?
“The King is slain! we fight in vain!
Alack, alack, the King is slain!”

The panic-stricken soldiers,
Pale-faced, from street to street
Flee wildly, as the enemy
Pursue their flying feet:
“The King is slain, the town is lost!
Who can withstand great Ivar’s host!”

But look! what stranger legions
Against the hostile tide
Leap forth in shining armor
And bold advancing ride,
Ride on and ever onward,
Beat back the hostile tide?

“The gods! the gods! Valhalla
Has sent its warriors down
To fight against our Ivar!
To battle for the town!”
And in dismay and terror
Is hushed the conquering cry.
From street to street,
In swift retreat,
And over fallen battlement,
The pale besiegers fly—
Fly fast and far; nor pause they
Till, on the northern shore,
They see the birchen forests,
And hear the breakers roar.

Meanwhile, with peals of gladness
The rescued city rang,
And loud their great deliverance
The joyous people sang,
And loud they sang the praises
Of him, the unknown knight,
Who led his valiant legions
To battle for the right.

So loud and long their praises,
Awaking from his swoon,
The King o’erheard, and seeing
Who wore the chieftain’s plume,
Aghast, stood up and questioned,
Hand on his horse’s rein,
“What art thou—man or spirit?
And what may be thy name?”

“I am, O King, no spirit;
And Eric is my name;—
Prince Eric, son of Eric,
Who sleeps on yonder plain.”

“What! Eric? son of Eric?
Ah, I have heard of thee,
How wise and well thou rulest
Beside the western sea.
But why dost thou come hither
To drive away the foe,
And earn my people’s praises,
Since well thou seem’st to know
That it was I,
In years gone by,
Who laid thy father low?”

“Not for thy people’s praises
I hither led my band,
But with, O king, thy favor,
To win thy daughter’s hand.”

“Great soul and gallant suitor!
Well doth he play his part,
Who, seeking hand of daughter,
Doth steal the father’s heart.”

But Princess Gerda saw not:
She heeded naught of all,
Nor gazed she from the window
High up the palace wall.
“Wherefore the loud rejoicing,
Wherefore the triumph vain,
Since he is dead—my father,—
Since he, the King, is slain?”

With streaming eyes she greeted
Two ent’ring at the door,
Aye, even him who bowed so low
His white plumes swept the floor;
The other—lo! her father!
Behold his spirit come!
She stood in trembling wonder;
Her pallid lips were dumb.

“Fear not, O Princess Gerda!
If thou wilt turn the key,
How gladly will I offer
To be a guide for thee!”

So spake the Prince; and Gerda
In listening paler grew;
Recalling guide and venture,
The words, the voice she knew.
“They come to me from spirit-land!
Two heroes are they, tall and grand,
And clad in armor bright!”
And in her fear,
As they drew near,
The quaint old room reeled round her,
And all was black as night.

But when again the Princess
Her blue eyes opened wide,
And saw the good King kneeling
And smiling at her side,
And heard him softly whisper,
“Behold, my little one,
I bring to thee a suitor
Will please me for a son”—
She bowed in sweet submission,
And meekly answered she:
“Whatever please my father,
That also pleaseth me.”

And in the royal city,
And all the country thro’,
Were festal cheer and gladness
Where late were war and woe;
For the good King’s dominions
And those the sea beside,
Were wed when Princess Gerda
Became brave Eric’s bride.

JUNGENTHOR, THE GIANT.

O Giant Jungenthor,
What a mighty one was he!
He was so big, he was so strong,
Whenever he walked the world along
The people would turn in terror,
The people would turn and flee—
Oh, oh, Jungenthor,
Such a mighty one was he!

Oh, Giant Jungenthor,
What a terrible one was he!
Whenever he went to take a ride,
The bald old oaks would step aside,
The pines would bend the knee:
And at the sound of his heavy tread
The hills would tremble and quake with dread,
The islands would rise to see—
Oh, oh, Jungenthor,
Such a terrible one was he!

Oh, Giant Jungenthor,
What a dreadful one was he!
Whenever he happened to say a word,
For miles and for miles his voice was heard,
Like the thunder’s roar and rumble;
The stones would rock and the timbers shake,
The glass in the windows all would break,
The chairs and tables tumble;
The kettles and pans would play and prance,
About the shelves would the dishes dance,
The clock would stop and the doors swing wide,
The cats would scamper, the dogs would hide,
The pigs would squeal and grumble;
The cocks would crow and the geese would fly,
The women would scream, the children cry,
The men look pale and humble;
And that is the way it would be—
Oh, oh, Jungenthor,
Such a dreadful one was he!

Where dwelt Jungenthor,
Where in the world dwelt he?
Not on the mountains clad with snow,
Not in the valleys deep below,
Not by the surging sea;
Not in the desert white with sand,
Not in the icy Northern land,
Not in the South Countrie.
Oh, oh, Jungenthor,
Where in the world dwelt he?

Under the mountains clad with snow,
Under the valleys deep below,
Under the surging sea;
Under the desert white with sand,
Under the icy Northern land,
Under the South Countrie;
Down, down, under them all—
They but the floor, and roof, and wall—
There in a cavern high and wide
(For the round earth was but a shell;
Who and whoever knew so well
As Jungenthor what was inside?)
There, there, there did he dwell,
There, and oh there dwelt he.

What do you guess was there inside
That earth-bound cavern, high and wide?
Oh, there were millions of chambers roomy,
Oh, there were galleries long and gloomy,
Oh, there were wondrous sights!
Here the ceilings were golden-beamed,
There the pavement with jewels gleamed,
With marbles and malachites;
Diamonds were set in the roof for stars,
The rafters were made of silver bars,
The columns of crystal clear.
Oh, in that cavern, high and wide,
Had ever a daring mortal tried
To travel alone and without a guide,
He had lost his way
And gone astray
And wandered many a year;
And if he had met the giant,
He surely had died of fear.

But there was a fairy who knew the way:
Often by night and often by day
To a dense forest she would go,
And there, in a cave all dark and low,
A rock as heavy as iron,
And as bright and as black as coal,
Swift, when her wand she lifted,
Away and away would roll;
And down would she clamber, clamber,
Through hundreds of miles of gloom,
On the rounds of a golden ladder
That led to a wonderful room—
Oh, a wonderful, wonderful chamber,
Flooded with amber light;
For there, at the centre of the earth,
A mighty fire on a mighty hearth
Burned ruddy, and warm, and bright;
Burned ruddy and bright forever,
With billows of orange flame,
And the giant’s occupation
Was—never to let it wane.
And there would the fairy find him
Stirring the coals red hot:
“Good-morrow to you, Jungenthor!”
So would the fairy say;
“And what and what does Winnikin want,
And what does she want to-day?”
So would the giant grumble;
But Winnikin feared him not.

And, now, “O Giant Jungenthor!”
Did her tale of wrong begin,
“There are two wicked cities—
A trouble to Winnikin,
The rich they are proud and cruel,
The poor they will lie and steal,
And trouble is always brewing
That Winnikin cannot heal;
And the friendly care and watching
Of the fairies they are not worth;
O Jungenthor, those cities
Are blots on the face of the earth!”

As soon as he guessed her errand,
The giant poked the fire
Till it roared, and hissed, and crackled,
Till the flames curled high and higher,
And billows of smoke and cinders
From the chimney-top rolled out,
And darkened the sky at noonday,
And shadowed the land about.
Then he filled ten billion barrels
With the soot that trickled down,
And up through the chimney hurled them,
Up through the chimney brown;
And lo! when the morning’s sunlight
Shone through the clouds of smoke,
In those two wicked cities
Neither prince nor beggar woke;
For the soot from the giant’s chimney
Had deluged the country wide;
And over those wicked cities
It rolled in a turbid tide.
All in the night
They were buried from sight.
“Ha, ha!” laughed Giant Jungenthor,
“Is Winnikin satisfied?”

And this was the fairy’s errand
When she came another time:
“O Jungenthor, a monarch
Has builded a palace fine;
Aided by dwarf and elfin
He has builded it tall and grand.
With marble white from the quarry,
Not hewn by mortal hand;
For night by night
In the pale moonlight
Did we hammer and delve away,
To get the great stones ready
For the workmen of the day.
O Jungenthor, we labored,
Behold, for a thankless King!
For he has cut down the forest
Where oft, in a merry ring,
Did the fairies dance and frolic,
Or among the branches swing.
After all our toil and trouble
He has destroyed our trees,
And the sight of his gorgeous palace
Winnikin does not please.”

As soon as her story ended
Did the angry giant frown;
He lifted his voice of thunder,
And the palace toppled down.
Oh! he roared so loud
That the frightened crowd
Fled from the tumbling town,
And the thankless monarch stumbled,
And fell, and broke his crown.
And forth from his firelit cavern
Did the giant peep and grin,
Then growled at the fay beside him—
“Does _that_ please Winnikin?”

And such were the fairy’s errands,
As from time to time she came
To Jungenthor the giant,
Feeding the flood of flame;
And such were the tales she told him
Of trouble, and wrong, and grief,
And thus and so
Would the giant go
To Winnikin’s relief.

Once came the fairy, weeping,
“O Jungenthor!” said she,
“O mighty giant, listen
To the news I bring to thee.

“All up among the mountains,
Amid the forests dim,
There stands a ruined castle,
A castle old and grim:
And in its shade at evening
The elves are wont to meet,
To dance upon the mosses
And sway with lilies sweet.
Well, yestere’en, it happened,
Just at the midnight hour,
While we were making merry,
Forth from the vine-wreathed tower
There came a plaintive moaning,
And I alone who heard
Flew up the twining ivy,
As lightly as a bird,
And found on high a dungeon
Beneath the shattered roof,
And there a pale young captive
From mortal aid aloof,
By heavy, clanking irons
Chained to the wall of stone.
O Jungenthor, good reason
Has he to weep and moan!
And this is what he told me,
And this is what he told;
Now hear, O mighty giant,
What fiends the earth doth hold:

“‘All up a mountain pathway,
That winds through forests green,
There rode three gallant horsemen
And nevermore were seen.
Three other gallant horsemen
Rode up in search of them,
Rode up the narrow pathway—
And came not back again.
And after went three others
The mountain searching o’er—
It fared with those three others
As with them that went before.
And all the people marveled,
And all were filled with fear,
And no one dared to venture
The mountain pathway near.

“‘Now, one of those nine horsemen
Was a knight of our good King;
And so a prize he offered
To any who should bring
A true report and trusty
Of all those hapless men
Who ventured up the mountain
And ne’er came down again.
Whoso should dare the pathway
And bring a true report,
Thus he should be rewarded—
Oh, he should dwell at court,
And all should do him honor,
And the King should make him knight,
And give to him a war-horse
And a suit of armor bright!

“‘Now, we are seven brothers,
So hale, and strong, and tall,
Save me, who am the seventh,
The youngest of them all;
And for my lowly stature,
Fair face, and yellow curls,
The rest they loved to taunt me
And tease the livelong day,
The while we watched the cattle
Or turned the new-mown hay.
“Go hence, go hence, fair lily,
And haste thee,” they would say;
“Lest thou shouldst tan or freckle
Beneath the burning sun,
Go get thyself a bonnet
To shield thee, gentle one!
Go gossip with old women!
Go spin and sew with girls!”

“‘Aweary of their mocking
And jests at last I grew,
And much I thought and pondered
What brave deed I might do,
Their cruel scorn to silence;
And when I heard the news,
A chance such prize of winning
How could I well refuse?
So, thro’ the brooding midnight,
The while the others slept,
Across the fields and pastures
All silently I crept;
And when mine eyes I lifted
At breaking of the day,
I saw afar the mountain,
Toward which I took my way.
And on, and on I journeyed,
Till, just as night came down,
I passed into the forest
Among the shadows brown.
Then up the winding pathway
I hurried on, in fear,
’Till, through the darkness shining
Forth from a ruin near,
A light I spied, and thither
I turned, in hope I might
Find food—for I was hungry—
And shelter for the night.
I reached the door, and ent’ring
(I thought the place an inn,
For there were sounds of feasting
And merriment within),
Fierce men, with cruel weapons,
A table gathered ’round,
Sprang up and seized me, helpless,
And with these fetters bound.
“What brings thee here, thou stripling?”
In anger questioned they.
“O sirs,” I answered, trembling,
“I’ve journeyed all the day;
For food, and rest, and shelter
I chanced to turn this way,
But since I am not welcome,
Let me pass on, I pray.”

“Ha, not so fast, young villain!
We know that is a lie.
What errand brings thee hither?
Confess thou art a spy!”
“It is a peaceful errand,
O sirs,” I answered then;
“I seek nine gallant horsemen.
And have ye heard of them?
They rode this way, nor ever
Returned, and I would bring
Some tidings of the missing
To our good lord, the King.”
At that, with peals of laughter
The dreary place did ring.
“Thou’lt see thy gallant horsemen
Ere thou shalt see the King!”
They said, and roughly dragged me
Along the banquet-hall,
And up into this lonesome tower,
And chained me to the wall.
“Lie there, lie there and rest thee!”
They cried in mocking tones;
“Thou’rt welcome to thy lodging—
And the lichens on the stones!”

“‘O fairy, now for many days
Have I thus helpless lain;
No food but these gray mosses,
No drink but pearls of rain
That through the sunken ceiling
Drop to me where I lie,
When the blessed clouds in pity
Creep downward from the sky.
O fairy, I beseech thee,
Release me ere I die!
For they who keep this castle
Are robbers fierce and bold,
I’ve learned from bloody stories
By one and other told,
As night by night, grown merry
With wine, their voices rise,
And come to me with secrets
Through the long galleries.
They gather here at midnight
From all the country o’er,
To hide their plundered treasure
Beneath the stone-paved floor,
To talk of their adventures
And feast till break of day,
When quick they mount their horses,
And swiftly ride away
To seek the mountain-passes
And lie in wait for prey.
The very steeds that bear them
Were stolen, and they tell
Of three who once rode hither,
On whom they, waiting, fell
And slew, and of three others
Who up the mountain came,
And yet again three others;
And all did fare the same.
And now—for who could doubt it?—
Those were the missing nine!
Oh! I would bear the tidings,
The prize it should be mine,
But that thus bound with irons
And helpless here I lie.
Good fairy, I beseech thee,
Release me ere I die!’

“Such was the tale he told me.
O Jungenthor, I plead
That thou wilt lift thy mighty arm
And help him in his need.”

When the fairy had finished speaking,
The giant stood up and knocked
Again and again on the ceiling,
Till the ruined castle rocked,
And the roof fell in
With a deafening din,
And the stones fell out
And tumbled about;
And the thieves who merrily feasted,
Or ever they could take flight,
The earth gaped wide and swallowed,
Then closed and covered from sight.
“Ha, ha!” laughed Giant Jungenthor,
“Haven’t I served them right?”

But there was one part of the castle—
The tow’r where the young lad lay—
Left standing (and who denieth
That it stands there to this day?)
The door it had flown wide open
At the knocking of Jungenthor,
The iron chain
It had snapped in twain,
And the captive was free once more.

And still in his clanking fetters,
Wasted, and weak, and wan,
He crawled away to the forest,
He wandered and wandered on.
Bewildered and faint, all slowly
Here and there did he stray,
Till he saw a snow-white charger,
With saddle and trappings gay,
Feeding among the herbage,
And him did he mount straightway,
Saying, “Good steed,
O speed, O speed!
And carry me, carry me, carry me
Safe to the King this day!”

Then the beautiful snow-white charger,
As tho’ he had understood,
Galloped adown the mountain,
Down and on through the wood;
And, eager, as one long absent
Seeking his home again,
The road to the royal city
He took when he reached the plain;
And the folk in the fields at labor,
And the passers to and fro,
Lifted their eyes in wonder,
Seeing him speeding so—
For ever the farther he traveled
The faster he seemed to go.

The King from the palace window
Looked forth at set of sun,
And along the dusty highway
Saw a horse and rider come;
And he watched till the snow-white charger
Paused at the palace gate,
Then he turned to the courtiers round him,
Saying in wonder great,
“Look, ye! it is the war horse
Of my brave knight, Harald, he
Who rode on the fated mission.
Bring the rider to me!”

And into the royal presence,
Trembling, the young lad came,
Wasted, and wan, and pallid,
Feebly dragging his chain.
“Who art thou?” the King demanded,
Marveling at the sight;
“Whence dost thou come, and wherefore,
And why in this woeful plight?”

Then the youth made timid answer—
“O my gracious lord the King,
I am a humble peasant,
And tidings I come to bring
Of the fate of the missing horsemen.”
Bidding the lad come near,
Eager the King did question,
And the courtiers all,
Both great and small,
Crowded about to hear.

When the boy had told his story
The King laid hand on his head;—
“If thou wert but ten years older
I would make thee a knight,” he said.
“Alas!” sighed the boy, recalling
The scorn and the cruel jeers
Of his brothers, “I am not worthy,
Because of my youthful years!”
And wasted, and weak, and pallid,
He sank with a weary moan,
His fetters clanking around him,
There at the foot of the throne.
Then the King’s fair little daughter,
Who had listened with tearful eyes,
Spake softly, “Have pity, my father!
Hath he not won the prize?”

“Arise!” said the good King, smiling,
“Forsooth I will keep my word,”
(And, saying, the young lad’s shoulder
Lightly he touched with his sword);
“Forsooth I will keep my promise,
Since the little one pleads thy claim!
Henceforth shall they know thee only
As the Knight of the Golden Mane.
The steed that hath borne thee hither
Henceforward thine own shall be,
And when thou art grown to fit it
Mine armor I’ll give to thee.”
Then to the servitors turning—
“Unbind him without delay,
Tho’ these chains were a badge of honor
And clanked in his praise to-day.”

And the youthful knight thereafter
At the court of the King abode,
Like a prince did he go appareled,
And the snow-white steed he rode.
And the King’s own suit of armor
He wore when a man he grew—
Helmet, and shield, and coat of mail,
And the good King’s broad-sword, too.
And so valiant was he in warfare,
And so wise alway, that his fame
Afar did ring,
And the foes of the King
Trembled to hear his name.

Now, once to the royal city
The people by thousands came
(For that day did he wed the princess,
She who pleaded his claim);
And there were six stalwart brothers
In the gay and festive throng,
And low did they make obeisance
As grandly he rode along;
But sudden, amazed and awe-struck
Were they when the warrior bold—
In his bright and dazzling armor,
With his flowing locks of gold—
Halted to give them greeting;
Sudden they blanched with shame,
For, behold, their long-lost brother
Was the Knight of the Golden Mane!

And none of all this had happened,
And the castle, so grim and gray,
Might have been the home of robbers
Unto this very day;
And the poor young lad imprisoned,
Bound by the iron chain,
Had clambered the lonely mountain
And tried for the prize in vain,
But for the giant’s knocking.
And from this and from that you see,
When the fairy asked help of Jungenthor,
Just the way it would be—
Oh, oh, Jungenthor,
Such a mighty one was he!

When the fairy had finished speaking,
The giant stood up and knocked.—PAGE 201.]

LITTLE FLORENCE.

O Florence, little Florence,
With your face so bonny-bright,
With your hair so full of sunshine,
With your eyes so full of light,

With your head so full of frolic,
With your heart so full of love,
If you could only tell me,
Could tell me, pretty dove!

Do the little laughing cherubs
Slide down the moonbeams white,
And whisper funny stories,
And talk to you all night?—

The funny bits of ballads
You babble now and then,
In a sweeter, softer language
Than other mortals ken.

Do they joke and jest so gleeful,
From set of sun till dawn,
That you lie and crow and giggle
Long after they are gone?

Do they always bring two dewy,
Fresh pieces of the sky,
And lift your lashes softly
And slip them under sly?

Do they pinch your cheeks a trifle,
To make the roses blow?
Do they punch your chubby fingers,
To make the dimples grow?

Do they show you sights of mischief,
All sorts of things to do
(Just to keep a body busy,
And the world from getting “blue”)?

Do they tickle you at table,
And tempt you to a spree
(Just to shake the mental cobwebs)
When the Parson’s in to tea?

Do they pity the canary,
And come to you and say,
’Tis weary of its prison
And wants to get away?

Do they hint the budding calla
Is bold enough to bloom,
If some one isn’t careful
To pluck it pretty soon?

Do they tell you on which bushes
Grows “de bestest zinzerbread”?
That how to get new dollies
Is to smash the old one’s head?

Do they teach you model methods
For enslaving humankind—
The way to rule the father
And to make the mother mind?

And to keep all of us people,
Who live across the street,
Forever on the listen
For the tinkling of your feet?

Alas! ere you can answer,
I’m very much in fear
The cherubs will have finished
A-whispering in your ear.

’Tis cloudy April weather,
There’s a chill in all the air,
And over in the window
I see the golden hair.

Somebody must stay indoors
For fear of catching cold;
And it’s “defful” tiresome business
For little Three-years-old.

But the whole town remembers
How, not six months agone,
All round the house the curtains
Were ever closely drawn,

And where erewhile the door-bell
Its frequent summons rang,
Was pinned a penciled notice,
To hush the piercing clang.

For little, little Florence
Among the shadows lay,
In fever, moaning, tossing,
The livelong night and day.

And oft was asked the question,
“Is she any better now?”
With a choking and a tremor
One couldn’t help, somehow.

But _she_ does not remember,
Of course—the blithesome heart.
See! she has donned her “yiding-hood,”
All ready for a start.

And—now! quick, no one watching,
Down, down the walk she flies—
And Betsy rushing after,
With a twinkle in her eyes.

Ha! let us see you catch her—
The wee Red Riding-hood!
A flash of scarlet lightning;
She’s in a racing mood.

Quick, o’er the muddy crossing
(The dainty buttoned shoes!)
Quick, quick, around the corner—
Ah, she begins to lose!

And—now!—the race is over.
You little midget, you!
To laugh such bubbling laughter,
The other must laugh too.

And now the door closed on her,
As yesterday, no doubt—
“Mamma must haf to lock it,
Or some peoples _vill_ get out.”

Once, left alone a moment,
They couldn’t find the child;
And the father’s face was ghastly,
And the mother—she went wild.

Nor here, nor there, the missing;
The neighbors, looking out,
Saw all the household flying
Promiscuously about,

And joined the search, in terror,
And hurried to and fro;
“Oh! where—oh! where is Florence?
Does anybody know?”

“O Florence! Florence! Florence!”
There came a little squeal
From pony Prince’s manger—
“I be here in de meal.”

The darling! may kind Heaven
Preserve her safe and sound!
For her ways defy conjecture,
And her plans—they are profound.

But bless the little cherubs
Who ride the moonbeams white,
And come to her a-cooing,
A-cooing all the night!

Who come to her with manna—
The melting music-mirth
She scatters in her pathway,
To gladden all the earth.

And bless the little Florence,
With her face so bonny-bright,
With her hair so full of sunshine,
With her eyes so full of light!

Aye, bless you, little sunbeam!
Shine on a good long while!
The world will be the better
For the ripple in your smile!

A CENTENNIAL TEA-POT.

Great-great-grandmother, Winifred Lee,
Brought, when she came across the sea,
A porcelain tea-pot pictured o’er,
After a fashion they knew of yore,
Bright with birds and with summer flowers
And fairies dancing in shady bowers—
A pretty treasure to keep in mind
The pleasant home she had left behind.

Weeks of battle with storm and gale
Wore on timber and mast and sail,
And just a league from its destined goal
The ship was wrecked on a hidden shoal.
Rescued, the people sped to shore,
Saving their lives and nothing more.

But Winifred, pacing the beach next day,
Dreaming of England far away—
A little homesick, and lone, and sad,
In spite of the morning gay and glad—
Saw, as she strolled, how the thieving tide
Had brought its plunder and scattered wide,
And behold, in seaweed carefully wound,
The porcelain tea-pot safe and sound!

When years had passed and the King’s demand
Roused the people of all the land,
And a ship’s cargo was put away
To steep at the bottom of Boston Bay,
With a rebel heart and a flashing eye
Winifred laid her tea-pot by;
“Till we are granted our rights,” said she,
“I’ll drink not another cup of tea.”

(Oh, matrons of this luxurious age,
Who lightly turn from History’s page,
Just for a year or two forego
Your redolent draughts of rare Pekoe,
And say if you deem the self-denial
Of our great-great-grandmothers not a trial!)

Murder, and pillage, and cannon’s roar,
All along the Connecticut shore,
Frighted from town the worthy dame.
Next day a barrack her house became,
And a troop of Redcoats helped themselves
To all they could find on the pantry shelves.
They drank and feasted, and sang and swore,
They tumbled the beds and the curtains tore,
And the quiet, orderly, well-kept house
Was the scene of a livelong night’s carouse.

Homeward stealing when they had passed,
Winifred gazed at the sight aghast.
With wrecks of revel the floors were strewn,
With tables broken and chairs o’erthrown;
Delicate saucer, and cup, and plate,
Ruined all—but, strange to relate,
The porcelain tea-pot standing still,
Safe and sound, on a window-sill!

Long and long have the lichens grown,
Wreathing a slender slab of stone,
Till scarcely the letters can you see
That spell the name of Winifred Lee.
But the pictured porcelain, handed down,
Far from the old elm-shaded town,
An heirloom prized, had found retreat
High over a thronged Chicago street—
There, in its corner, fresh and gay
As tho’ it were made but yesterday.

When in the night a terror came,
And the great city was red with flame,
And the people, jostling, gasped for breath
As they wildly fled from the jaws of death;
Little leisure or care had they
Their household treasures to bear away.

Nevertheless, as one returned
To where the _débris_ smouldering burned,
Where heaps of ashes, and brick, and stone,
Were all that remained of a goodly home—
Saving a charred and blackened wall,
Like skeleton rising gaunt and tall—
Glancing upward, with wondering eye,
The marvelous tea-pot did he spy,
Boldly gleaming against the sky.

Ah, old tea-pot, gleaming still,
What is the magic that guards from ill,
From tempest, and war, and time, and fire—
All for thy ruin that conspire?
Behold thee, shining so bright and gay!
Old tea-pot, art thou bewitched, I say?
If that be true, and in some hour
Thou shouldst possess thee of speech the power,
With the vapor that curls from thy graceful spout
What prisoned secret wilt thou let out?
Wilt tell how gossips have lisped and chided
At little suppers where thou hast presided?
Wilt ever laugh at the fortunes told,
The willing credence of young and old,
As the sibylline leaves thou didst unfold?

Forsooth, as I watch thee blink and shine
In that remarkable way of thine,
I’m half afraid of thee!—No, not so,
Thou precious relic of long ago!
Breathing fragrance and friendly cheer,
Live for many and many a year!
The next Centennial may’st thou see,
Is the toast I drink in a cup of tea.

ORANGE, N. J., 1876.

IN LILAC TIME.

The bobolink sung to ’is mate,
The doves wuz softly cooin’,
I heard the clinkin’ of the gate,
When Joe first come a-wooin’.

I stood beside the lilock bush
(The sun was slowly sinkin’);
My cheeks wuz all to once a-blush,
When I heard the gate-latch clinkin’.

Fer Joe he wuz so good an’ kind
(Tho’ such a bashful lover),
No truer friend you’d ever find
In all the wide world over.

He sez, “Ez I wuz goin’ by,
I seed yer hair so shiny,
Yer eyes ez blue ez summer sky,
Yer cheeks ez red’s a piny;

“My heart my throat come thrummin’ in,
The dusk it struck my fancy;
I couldn’t help a-comin’ in
An’ speakin’ to ye, Nancy.”

An’ then ’e sez—’e sez—O me!
My feelins gits unruly—
He’d liked me all along, you see;
I know he loved me truly.

An’ I wuz but an orphan, too,
A-workin’ fer my livin’,
Without a kith er kin I knew,
An’ jest myself to give ’im.

An’ when iz voice sunk soft away—
A kind o’ tremblin’ in it—
The words I tried so hard to say
Kep’ chokin’ fer a minute.

The lilock blossoms wuz in blow,
So sweet, with dewdrops beaded;
I handed ’im a bunch, an’ Joe
No other answer needed.

The year it passed, the war wuz come,
The soldiers fast enrollin’;
I heard the beatin’ of the drum,
I thought like church-bell tollin’.

I stood beside the lilock bush,
The shadows round me lyin’,
An’ all the evenin’ in a hush,
Except the wind a-sighin’;

An’ down the lane the whip-’oor-will
So sad an’ mournful callin’—
Somehow it wuz so dreadful still,
The tears _would_ keep a-fallin’.

An’ then _he_ come—so brave an’ strong,
An’ yet ’is lips a-quiv’rin’;
I guesst ’is errant all along,
An’ couldn’t help a-shiv’rin’.

O friend, the year went round—went round—
But this’ll tell you better;
This withered lilock some one found,
An’ sent me in a letter.

Ah, well! there’s more than me that know
How sad is war, an’ fearful,
An’ since the good God plans it so,
I must try to be cheerful;

But when the lilocks air in bloom,
An’ when the day’s a-dyin’,
I creep off to my little room
An’ have a fit of cryin’.

BLUE EYES.

Violets, violets, blossoming low,
Shadowy grasses under;
Blue, blue eyes,
Up at the skies
Peering, as if in wonder.

What tho’ the garden with bloom be sweet,
Its mantle the wood renewing;
And the birdlings glad
Be rollicking mad
And musical in their wooing;

What tho’ the streamlet softly flow,
Murmuring, laughing, grieving,
And the livelong day
The zephyr gay
Story and rhyme be weaving;

Never the spring-time hath been complete
Till, the long grasses under,
I find blue eyes
Up at the skies
Peering, as if in wonder.

THE APPLE-GATHERING.

Apples, apples, apples,
Here they come tumbling down,
Yellow, and white, and rosy,
Crimson, purple, and brown;
Seek-no-further and russet,
Gilliflower, Jersey sweet,
Strawberry, mellow _Fameuse_
Fit for a king to eat;
Pound royals, golden pippins,
Spitzenbergs hard and red;
Take care! get out of the way, there,
Or they’ll plump,
Cathump,
On somebody’s head!

Gather them into the baskets,
Empty them into the bin;
What a luscious store to go to
When the winter wild sets in!
Oh, if the apples Eve saw
Were as handsome as some of these,
How ever could she help saying—
“I’ll take one, if you please”?
Yellow, and white, and rosy,
Crimson, purple, and brown,
Apples, apples, apples,
Here they come tumbling down.

GOOD-BY, LITTLE BIRD.

Good-by, little bird, the storm-clouds
Are gathering gray and drear;
At the chilly touch of the Frost-king
The sunbeams have paled with fear;
Wither’d, the leaves, and fallen lie;
Sadly the winds of autumn sigh;
Good-by, little bird, good-by, good-by;
Little bird, stay not here.

Good-by, little bird, I see thee
Winging thy southward way
To a sunny land thou knowest,
Caroling as thou goest,
Singing a blithesome lay.
Alas, and alas, no longer
Shall thy tuneful voice be heard,
Till the leafless limbs be clothed again,
And the blossoms gladden hill and glen.
Good-by, good-by, little bird, till then;
Good-by, good-by, little bird.

HE WILL COME BACK.

Slow the sunset’s glory fades
In a thousand shifting shades,
Crimson passing into gray,
Where the waters of the bay,
Mirror, serve the sky alway.

From the dim, far-reaching sea
Blows the cool wind merrily,
Fills the snowy sails spread wide,
And the fishers gaily glide
Out against a rising tide.

Children on the sea-beach white
Watch them speeding out of sight;
Rose, the eldest of the band,
Sees but him who waves his hand—
Boldest sailor in the land.

“All is well when father goes,”
Softly murmurs little Rose,
Listening to the breaker’s moan,
As she wends her way alone
Up the cliff-side to her home.

Thro’ the night the storm-bells toll,
And she hears the thunder’s roll,
Sees across the heaven’s black
The red lightning’s zigzag track;
Still, “I know he will come back!”

Broken spar and shattered mast,
By the reckless billows cast
On the shore at early day,
As they, guilty, steal away,
Find the villagers and say—

While above them smiles the sun—
“’Twill go hard with such an one,
’Twill be sad for these and those,
But who shall the news disclose
To the little orphan Rose?”

Rose, small housewife, mixing bread,
When they tell her shakes her head:
“Do you think I can forget
All the perils he has met,
And naught ever harmed him yet?”

And the neighbors say, “Poor child!”
Whispering, “Grief has made her wild.”
But at eve white sails behold!
Flashing up a path of gold,
Just as little Rose foretold.

KATY.

Katy on the doorstep sat,
While her dimpled fingers fat
Moved industrious to and fro
O’er the gay pink calico;
For an apron she was making,
All herself, with much painstaking.

Pretty picture made she there,
Humming a quaint Celtic air,
Blue eyes on the work intent,
Cheek where tan and roses blent,
Brown hair smoothly brushed and braided,
Tied at ends with ribbon faded.

Such a happy little maid,
Sitting in the porch’s shade,
Tempted me to questioning,
Till she fell a-gossiping,
All about her country telling
And the peasant’s mode of dwelling;

How she came from “ferninst Corrk
Tin miles,” how she used to walk
There and back without a rest,
Only, by the way confessed,
That the miles “beyant” “air shorrter”
Than they are this side the water;

How the houses are of clay,
And the roofs are green alway—
Thatched with turf; how very sweet
The odor of the burning peat,
Which warms in winter-time the cottage
And cooks the oatmeal or the pottage;

How now and then a troop passed by,
Fox-hunting, riding gallantly—
Fair ladies and fine gentlemen,
Who dashed through field, and wood, and glen—
Nor hedge, nor fence, nor stream could stay
Their fiery steeds upon the way;

How on a hill-side near her home
There stands a ruin, ivy-grown,
Which long, and long, and long gone by
Was a grand castle, strong and high;
And now by night the people passing
Make haste, for fear a ghost be chasing.

Thus and so did Katy chat,
As in the shaded porch she sat.
The little maiden twelve years old
With ready tongue her story told,
Better than all the books relate it
Or half the travelers can state it.

MARIE.

Little Marie is lonesome,
Little Marie is sad,
Tho’ the summer sun is shining
And the summer days are glad.

Ever she stops to listen
As her weary task she plies,
Anon at the open window
Lingers with dreamy eyes.

Not at the distant woodlands,
Veiled in a golden haze,
Or the miles between of meadow
And wheat and rippling maze,

Dotted with elms and maples
That move in the morning breeze,
And now and then a farm-house
Shaded by apple trees,

The shallow, winding streamlet,
Where cattle lazily wade,
Here in the sunlight flashing,
Trembling there in the shade—

Not at the quiet landscape
Gazes she; far and dim
She sees the white clouds fleecy
That crown the horizon’s rim.

They are the snow-clad mountains
She saw from the chalet low,
Where she dwelt in the dear old Rhineland—
Ah! it seems so long ago.

Not to the streamlet’s murmur
Listens she; far away
Gurgles a mountain torrent
Over the rocks all day—

Gurgles and laughs and plashes,
Turning the mill-wheel ’round;
Gurgles and laughs so merry—
Hush! she can hear the sound.

She and the village children
Clamber along its route;
Ernest is always leading—
Hark! she can hear him shout:

“Marie! I’ll help thee, Marie!”
She reaches her hand to him—
Sudden the wide eyes vacant
Fountains of tear-drops brim.

Suddenly far and mocking
Sounds the voice of the brook.
She turns away from her mountains;
Ah, no, no! she must not look.

“Courage, my little Marie!”
Was it an echo, then?
When he went off to the battles—
He never came back again—

Thus did he say, her lover,
Stroking her golden hair:
“Courage, my little Marie!”
Hist! a step on the stair.

Idling and dreaming, Marie!
Quick to her work she flies;
What if the madame find her
Staring with wistful eyes?

All in the land of strangers
Pity is sweet and rare.
Dreary the life before her,
Never a soul to care.

So, tho’ the sun be shining,
So, tho’ the day be glad,
Sometimes she loses courage,
Sometimes Marie is sad.

“THE BANJO.”

_Ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling,_
_Ting-a-ling-a-ling,_
_Ting-a-ling-a-ling, ling,_
_Ting-a-ling, ling._

Under the window,
Down in the street,
Little brown curly head,
Little bare feet;
Pleadingly lifted,
Slumberous eyes,
Thrumming, fingering,
Nimble hand flies.

_Ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling,_
_Ting-a-ling-a-ling,_
_Ting-a-ling-a-ling, ling,_
_Ting-a-ling, ling._

Song of the Southland
Over the sea,
Sing, little Napolese,
Sing to me.

“Beautiful Southland
Over the sea,
Gayly and gladly
Sing I of thee!
_Ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling,_
_Ting-a-ling-a-ling,_
So will I sing,
And so will I sing.

“Purple the mountains,
Purple the wines,
Sunny the hill-slopes
Clad with vines;
Sunny the skies are,
Balmy the air,
Time floateth dreamily,
Dreamily there.
Tirra, la, la, la!
Tirra, la, la,
Viva, viva,
Italia!”

Tattered cap held for
The pennies dropped down;
Off he goes wandering
Over the town,
Thrumming, fingering—,
_Ting-a-ling-a-ling,_
_Ting-a-ling-a-ling, ling,_
_Ting, ling, ling._

WINSOME MAGGIE.

When winsome little Maggie
Comes dancing down the street,
The people smile upon her,
And pause, and kindly greet.

The white-haired parson gently
Lays hand upon her head,
The roguish doctor pinches
Her cheek so round and red.

The grim old judge’s visage,
Forever in a frown,
Relaxes for an instant,
As, passing, he looks down.

The matrons stoop to kiss her,
The children, at their play,
Call out, as little Maggie
Goes tripping on her way.

Not e’en the dreaded gossip,
Who through her half-closed blind
Peeps forth, with little Maggie
Has any fault to find.

When winsome little Maggie,
With basket on her arm,
In which her father’s luncheon
Is wrapped so nice and warm—

When she enters the long workshop
And pauses at his side,
Quick down he lays his hammer
And turns in love and pride,

To look into her limpid eyes,
And stroke her sunny hair,
And jest and frolic with her—
Forgetting toil and care—

For the music of her laughter
And the mirth of her replies,
The while there’s not a happier man,
Or richer, ’neath the skies.

Ah, well, it is a blessing
To have a heart so gay
That it keeps your feet a-dancing,
Your face alight alway,

And that, like winsome Maggie,
It seems, where’er you go,
As if the clouds had parted
To let a sunbeam thro’.

A HAPPY PAIR.

“_Contented wi’ little and cantie wi’ mair._”

Yes, we live down in the orchard,
Under an apple tree;
We’ve got a palace down there,
Little Padoy and me.

We built it of sticks and timbers
The carpenters threw away.
We worked at it hard, I tell you;
It took us a whole long day.

There’s a door (without any hinges),
And a window (without any blind),
And a chimney (it’s built of pebbles,
And it smokes—but never mind).

And the roof (it’s a little leaky),
We tried to make it look—
With straw laid smooth—like the houses
I found in my picture book.

There’s a stairway made of corn-cobs,
And parlor and kitchen and hall,
And sofas and chairs and tables,
And a looking-glass on the wall;

And in the kitchen a cupboard
With real dishes on the shelves;
Mother, she gave them to us,
But the rest we made ourselves.

Oh, just come along now, won’t you?
It’s only a little way.
I want to show you our palace—
How old am I, did you say?

I’ll be six years old next summer,
And my wife she’s going on four;
There she is, waiting for me—
There by our palace door.

Padoy, see, we’ve got company,
Now you must be polite
And say “Good morning” pretty,
And “Won’t you sit down?” That’s right.

And here’s the dinner ready—
Biscuit and sauce and tea.
The tea it’s water and sugar,
And as sweet as sweet can be;

And the biscuits—Padoy, she makes ’em:
She mixes water and flour,
And sets it to rise in the sunshine
For almost a half an hour;

And then she kneads it and kneads it
Into tiny cakes of dough,
And it’s fun to play ball with ’em,
Before they’re baked, you know.

Say, now, won’t you have some?
Only one! Why, look here.
There’s lots more where these come from,
Ain’t there, Padoy, my dear?

You’d like to look at my garden?
Oh, yes, it’s right out there;
Somehow it doesn’t do well,
In spite of all my care.

The wind it blew down my bean-vine,
My radish it never grew,
The bugs they eat up my cabbage,
And my turnip and cucumber too.

(Padoy, run wash the dishes).
I wouldn’t have _her_ know,
But I tore up the tomato
Trying my bran-new hoe.

Ever quarrel? Why, no, I guess not.
Sometimes she won’t play fair,
And once I got out of patience,
And bit her and pulled her hair.

But she cried so hard, I tell you
I was sorry as could be;
And, well, I—I—I kissed her,
And we made up, you see.

Candy! Oh, my! Padoy,
Just look here, will you, then?
Going? Well, to-morrow
Come and see us again.

“I’ll be six years old next summer,
And my wife she’s going on four.”—PAGE 236.]

SIGS VEEGS OFER.

Von’d you puy somedings, laty?
I haf not solt dis tay
Von shillin’s wort’. I kess maype
De folks dey no forshteh.

I haf peen sigs veegs ofer,
I comes vrom Cherman land,
De lankuache of dis konetree
I no yed ondherstand.

“Pints, neetles, rippones, laces,”
All de tings vod I sells,
“Pock’t-hankchies, neckdies, shpenders,”
I fer mooch careful dells.

“Vod prize?” So den I dells dem.
Dey shmiles. Dey no forshteh.
Dis lankuache ish der drooples;—
I haf do durn avay.

So habbens I sells noding;
De dime koes py und py;
Und oop und town I trafels—
Of hunker I shall tie.

Von’d you puy somedings, laty?
Oh, tanks! Der subber? Goot!
It ish not since last efening
I haf some leetle foot.

I bays you noding for it?
Vell den, I sells you—cheap?
No? Vell, I fer mooch tank you.
Goot day. Got sent you sheep![8]

[8] God send you a ship; _i. e._, May you prosper.

THE CHILD ON THE BATTLE-FIELD.

Over the flowery meadow
She wanders with careless feet,
Chasing butterflies golden,
Gathering blossoms sweet.

She talks a-while to the roses,
She grasps at the sunbeams bright;
To pieces she plucks the daisies,
And scatters their rays of white.

“Tra, la, la, la, la, la, la!”
She carols so sweet and clear,
Unheeding the two great armies,
Gathered in silence near—

The two great hostile armies
Gathered in battle array,
Watching the tiny creature
Among the blossoms at play.

And never a sword is lifted,
And never an order heard,
As they list to the silvery accents,
Like the trill of a blithesome bird.

They listen, the grim old warriors,
To the voice so full of glee,
Singing, “Tra, la, la, la, la,
Tra, la, la, la, la, lee!”

And over the rippling tresses
Do they watch the sunbeams glide,
Till many a lip that quivers,
The gray mustaches hide.

And many a heart beats faster,
As the thoughts of those thousands stray
To the little ones singing, playing,
In the homes so far away;

Little ones singing, playing,
Happy and gay and free,
Sunny-haired little children
They never again may see.

Thus do they wait in silence,
Till the child to her cottage-door
Creeps—as the sunshine, often,
From skies that are clouded o’er.

Then—as those clouds in anger
Meet with deafening din,
So the two hostile armies
The battle straightway begin.

That was hundreds of years since;
Scarcely the records tell
To which of those hostile armies
The glory of winning fell.

But though ’twas hundreds of years since.
There you may read, this day,
How a little child, unwitting,
Held them an hour at bay.

PINKETY-WINKETY-WEE.

Pinkety-winkety-wee!
Ten pink fingers has she,
Ten pink toes,
One pink nose,
And two eyes that can hardly see;
And they blink and blink, and they wink and wink,
So you can’t tell whether they’re blue or pink.

Pinkety-blinkety-winkety-wee!
Not much hair on her head has she;
She has no teeth, and she cannot talk;
She isn’t strong enough yet to walk;
She cannot even so much as creep;
Most of the time she is fast asleep;
Whenever you ask her how she feels,
She only doubles her fist and squeals.
The queerest bundle you ever did see
Is little Pinkety-winkety-wee.

PUSS IN A QUANDARY.

The table is spread, my daughter dear,
Let us just climb up—there’s no one near—
And help ourselves to the best that’s here.
Wouldn’t you like a piece of trout?
Ow! but the bones should have been picked out.
Here’s a savory dish of meat.
Ah, this omelet is a treat!
Don’t be dainty—a feast so gay
Isn’t granted us every day.
(_Enter the master—“Out of that!_
_Scamper! off with you! s-s-s-scat!”_)
Oh, the wearisome life of a cat!
Mew, mew, meou, ow!
I think it’s curious, anyhow.
Where people can come and go so free,
Why, and I wonder, shouldn’t we?
What’s the reason these two-legged fry
Are any better than you and I?

LENA LAUGHED.

Ah, pretty Lena! why is she weeping?
What has befallen? What is it creeping
All the way, all the way down her pink cheeks?
One little, two little, three little tearies;
One little, two little, three little streaks!

One little, two little, three little brothers
Out on a frolic, chasing each other—
And ever and ever so many more!
Quick, let us catch them—poor little dearies!—
Here in this handkerchief, ere they fall o’er.

Now let us find them. Why, they have hidden!
Perhaps they were fairies that came all unbidden,
And ran away, frightened, when Lena laughed out.
Ha, ha! how she scared them! but very queer is
The change that a laugh can alone bring about.

’TIS THE APPLES.

Little kid,
Frisking kid,
Pretty as a fawn,
Runs to me when I pass
Where he lies in the grass,
At the early dawn.

Little one, pretty pet,
You have not forgotten yet
How the other day I fed
You with apples, rosy-red,
By the garden wall.
’Tis for juicy apples sweet
You are kneeling at my feet,
’Tis the apples you love so—
Apples, and not me, I know,
Oh, not me at all!

FOOLED.

After the long and merry day,
Little cousin, tired of play,
Has fallen asleep in the rocking-chair.
Soft, let me whisper in her ear—
There are better places to rest, my dear;
Come, let us go up-stair.

She doesn’t waken. Now, eyes so bright,
Under a curtain, out of sight,
Cannot I get a glimpse of you?
Creep, creep, creep, mouse, creep,
Cautiously up the dimpled cheek—
Peek, peek-a-boo, boo!

Not a glimpse! Now, then, little girl,
I’ll tickle your ear with this stray curl,
This curl of your tangled hair.
Now I’ll count the dimples: One, two, three—
“Ha! ha!”—you rogue, you were fooling me!
Fooling me, I declare!

A NEW TOY.

Sunshine dances on the floor;
Baby reaches after;
Golden toy, ne’er touched before,
Wakens smiles and laughter.

Mighty orb, so wondrous bright,
Human gaze defying,
The round earth with warmth and light
Lavishly supplying;

Making green the forest wide,
Blue the ocean’s billow,
And the rosy eventide
Meet to be thy pillow;

Clothing vale and slope and plain
With rare blossom-treasure,
Purpling grape and rip’ning grain
For the people’s pleasure;

Driving chill and gloom away,
Wheresoe’er they may be;—
Lo, thou bringest, god of day,
Playthings for a baby.

CHARLEY ON HORSEBACK.

“_I had a little hobby-horse._”

Rock away! rock away!
Here we go
All on a journey—
Kee! ki—oh!

Over the mountains,
Over the sea,
Rock away, rock away,
Here are we!

Now we’re in China,
Now we’re in Spain,
Now we’re in Texas,
Now we’re in Maine.

Now we’re in London,
Now we’re in Rome—
Here we are back again,
Safe at home!

Look at us, look at us,
Tim and me!
No greater travelers
Will you see.

Can’t stop for questions,
Oh, no, no!
Rock away, rock away,
Off we go!

CRUEL!

She tried to scratch out both my eyes
(It is true!)
Tried to pull off both my ears,
My nose, too;
Scolded me—I thought she said
She would leave upon my head
Not a solitary hair—
Meant it, laughing—didn’t care!

Well, it rather hurt, but I
Murmured not, nor made outcry;
Let her pull, and scratch, and scold;
(She is only six months old).

CLUCK, CLUCK!

Cluck, cluck! come under my wings,
All you poor little shivering things!
It’s cloudy above and muddy below;
The rain pours down and the four winds blow.
Too bad the weather’s so damp and cold,
And you, poor chicks, but three days old!
You haven’t much chance, that I can see;
But cluck, cluck! come hither to me.
Yellow, and Brownie, and Tan, and White,
Blackie and Spot—yes, six—that’s right.
Cluck, cluck! hide under my wings,
And I’ll keep you warm, you poor little things.

BOBBIE AND THE BEE.

“_Hark, the bee winds its small but mellow horn._”

All roun’ de flowers, you pwitty fly,
All roun’ de flowers an’ me,
You sing so loud! Dess reason why—
You’s happy as tan be.
Bet I tan tatch you if I try.
Zere! now I’s dot you, see!
Boo-hoo! Do ’way, you udly fly!
What for you bited me?