Chapter XXV: Part II (7)

But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock,
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.

"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need;
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now, if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."

"But not on us," the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said,
"Do you admire the view?"

"It was so kind of you to come,
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but,
"Cut us another slice.
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick.
After we've brought them out so far
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but,
"The butter's spread too thick!"

"I weep for you," the Walrus said,
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?"
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.

_Lewis Carroll._

NIRVANA

I am A Clam! Come learn of me Unclouded peace and calm content, Serene, supreme tranquillity, Where thoughtless dreams and dreamless thoughts are blent.

When the salt tide is rising to the flood,
In billows blue my placid pulp I lave;
And when it ebbs I slumber in the mud,
Content alike with ooze or crystal wave.

I do not shudder when in chowder stewed,
Nor when the Coney Islander engulfs me raw.
When in the church soup's dreary solitude
Alone I wander, do I shudder? Naw!

If jarring tempests beat upon my bed,
Or summer peace there be,
I do not care: as I have said,
All's one to me;
A Clam
I am.

_Unknown._

THE CATFISH

The saddest fish that swims the briny ocean,
The Catfish I bewail.
I cannot even think without emotion
Of his distressful tail.
When with my pencil once I tried to draw one,
(I dare not show it here)
Mayhap it is because I never saw one,
The picture looked so queer.
I vision him half feline and half fishy,
A paradox in twins,
Unmixable as vitriol and vichy--
A thing of fur and fins.
A feline Tantalus, forever chasing
His fishy self to rend;
His finny self forever self-effacing
In circles without end.
This tale may have a Moral running through it
As Æsop had in his;
If so, dear reader, you are welcome to it,
If you know what it is!

_Oliver Herford._

WAR RELIEF

"Can you spare a Threepenny bit,
Dear Miss Turkey," said Sir Mouse,
"For Job's Turkey's benefit?
I've engaged the Opera House!"

"Alas! I've naught to spare!"
Said Miss Turkey, "save advice,
I am getting up a Fair,
To relieve the Poor Church Mice."

_Oliver Herford._

THE OWL AND THE PUSSY-CAT

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat:
They took some honey, and plenty of money
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
"Oh, lovely Pussy, oh, Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!"

Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl,
How charmingly sweet you sing!
Oh, let us be married; too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?"
They sailed away for a year and a day,
To the land where the bong-tree grows;
And there in the wood a Piggy-wig stood,
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.

"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."
So they took it away and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.

_Edward Lear._

MEXICAN SERENADE

When the little armadillo With his head upon his pillow Sweetly rests, And the parrakeet and lindo Flitting past my cabin window Seek their nests,--

When the mists of even settle Over Popocatapetl, Dropping dew,-- Like the condor, over yonder, Still I ponder, ever fonder, Dear, of You!

May no revolution shock you, May the earthquake gently rock you To repose, While the sentimental panthers Sniff the pollen-laden anthers Of the rose!

While the pelican is pining, While the moon is softly shining On the stream, May the song that I am singing Send a tender cadence winging Through your dream!

I have just one wish to utter-- That you twinkle through your shutter Like a star, While, according to convention, I shall cas-u-ally mention My guitar.

Señorita Maraquita, Muy bonita, pobracita!-- Hear me weep!-- But the night is growing wetter, So I guess that you had better Go to sleep.

_Arthur Guiterman._

ORPHAN BORN

I am a lone, unfathered chick, Of artificial hatching, A pilgrim in a desert wild, By happier, mothered chicks reviled, From all relationships exiled, To do my own lone scratching.

Fair science smiled upon my birth One raw and gusty morning; But ah, the sounds of barnyard mirth To lonely me have little worth; Alone am I in all the earth-- An orphan without borning.

Seek I my mother? I would find A heartless personator; A thing brass-feathered, man-designed, With steam-pipe arteries intermined, And pulseless cotton-batting lined-- A patent incubator.

It wearies me to think, you see-- Death would be better, rather-- Should downy chicks be hatched of me, By fate's most pitiless decree, My piping pullets still would be With never a grandfather.

And when to earth I bid adieu To seek a planet greater, I will not do as others do, Who fly to join the ancestral crew, For I will just be gathered to My incubator.

_Robert J. Burdette._

DIVIDED DESTINIES

It was an artless Bandar, and he danced upon a pine, And much I wondered how he lived, and where the beast might dine, And many, many other things, till, o'er my morning smoke, I slept the sleep of idleness and dreamed that Bandar spoke.

He said: "Oh, man of many clothes! sad crawler on the Hills! Observe, I know not Ranken's shop, nor Ranken's monthly bills! I take no heed to trousers or the coats that you call dress; Nor am I plagued with little cards for little drinks at Mess.

"I steal the bunnia's grain at morn, at noon and eventide (For he is fat and I am spare), I roam the mountainside, I follow no man's carriage, and no, never in my life Have I flirted at Peliti's with another Bandar's wife.

"Oh, man of futile fopperies--unnecessary wraps; I own no ponies in the Hills, I drive no tall-wheeled traps; I buy me not twelve-button gloves, 'short-sixes' eke, or rings, Nor do I waste at Hamilton's my wealth on pretty things.

"I quarrel with my wife at home, we never fight abroad; But Mrs. B. has grasped the fact I am her only lord. I never heard of fever--dumps nor debts depress my soul; And I pity and despise you!" Here he pouched my breakfast-roll.

His hide was very mangy and his face was very red, And undisguisedly he scratched with energy his head. His manners were not always nice, but how my spirit cried To be an artless Bandar loose upon the mountainside!

So I answered: "Gentle Bandar, an inscrutable Decree Makes thee a gleesome, fleasome Thou, and me a wretched Me. Go! Depart in peace, my brother, to thy home amid the pine; Yet forget not once a mortal wished to change his lot with thine."

_Rudyard Kipling._

THE VIPER

Yet another great truth I record in my verse, That some Vipers are venomous, some the reverse; A fact you may prove if you try, By procuring two Vipers and letting them bite; With the first you are only the worse for a fright, But after the second you die.

_Hilaire Belloc._

THE LLAMA

The Llama is a woolly sort of fleecy, hairy goat, With an indolent expression and an undulating throat, Like an unsuccessful literary man. And I know the place he lives in (or at least I think I do) It is Ecuador, Brazil or Chile--possibly Peru; You must find it in the Atlas if you can.

The Llama of the Pampases you never should confound (In spite of a deceptive similarity of sound), With the Lhama who is Lord of Turkestan. For the former is a beautiful and valuable beast, But the latter is not lovable nor useful in the least; And the Ruminant is preferable surely to the Priest Who battens on the woful superstitions of the East, The Mongol of the Monastery of Shan.

_Hilaire Belloc._

THE YAK

As a friend to the children commend me the yak,
You will find it exactly the thing:
It will carry and fetch, you can ride on its back,
Or lead it about with a string.

A Tartar who dwells on the plains of Thibet
(A desolate region of snow)
Has for centuries made it a nursery pet,
And surely the Tartar should know!

Then tell your papa where the Yak can be got,
And if he is awfully rich,
He will buy you the creature--or else he will not,
(I cannot be positive which).

THE FROG

Be kind and tender to the Frog,
And do not call him names,
As "Slimy-Skin," or "Polly-wog,"
Or likewise, "Uncle James,"
Or "Gape-a-grin," or "Toad-gone-wrong,"
Or, "Billy-Bandy-knees;"
The Frog is justly sensitive
To epithets like these.

No animal will more repay A treatment kind and fair, At least, so lonely people say Who keep a frog (and, by the way, They are extremely rare).

_Hilaire Belloc._

THE MICROBE

The Microbe is so very small You cannot make him out at all, But many sanguine people hope To see him through a microscope. His jointed tongue that lies beneath A hundred curious rows of teeth; His seven tufted tails with lots Of lovely pink and purple spots

On each of which a pattern stands,
Composed of forty separate bands;
His eyebrows of a tender green;
All these have never yet been seen--
But Scientists, who ought to know,
Assure us that they must be so....
Oh! let us never, never doubt
What nobody is sure about!

_Hilaire Belloc._

THE GREAT BLACK CROW

The crow--the crow! the great black crow! He cares not to meet us wherever we go; He cares not for man, beast, friend, nor foe, For nothing will eat him he well doth know. Know--know! you great black crow! It's a comfort to feel like a great black crow!

The crow--the crow! the great black crow! He loves the fat meadow--his taste is low; He loves the fat worms, and he dines in a row With fifty fine cousins all black as a sloe. Sloe--sloe! you great black crow! But it's jolly to fare like a great black crow!

The crow--the crow! the great black crow! He never gets drunk on the rain or snow; He never gets drunk, but he never says no! If you press him to tipple ever so. So--so! you great black crow! It's an honour to soak like a great black crow!

The crow--the crow! the great black crow! He lives for a hundred year and mo'; He lives till he dies, and he dies as slow As the morning mists down the hill that go. Go--go! you great black crow! But it's fine to live and die like a great black crow!

_Philip James Bailey._

THE COLUBRIAD

Close by the threshold of a door nailed fast, Three kittens sat; each kitten looked aghast. I, passing swift and inattentive by, At the three kittens cast a careless eye; Not much concerned to know what they did there; Not deeming kittens worth a poet's care. But presently, a loud and furious hiss Caused me to stop, and to exclaim, "What's this?" When lo! upon the threshold met my view, With head erect, and eyes of fiery hue, A viper long as Count de Grasse's queue. Forth from his head his forked tongue he throws, Darting it full against a kitten's nose; Who, having never seen, in field or house, The like, sat still and silent as a mouse; Only projecting, with attention due, Her whiskered face, she asked him, "Who are you?" On to the hall went I, with pace not slow, But swift as lightning, for a long Dutch hoe: With which well armed, I hastened to the spot To find the viper--but I found him not. And, turning up the leaves and shrubs around, Found only that he was not to be found; But still the kittens, sitting as before, Sat watching close the bottom of the door. "I hope," said I, "the villain I would kill Has slipped between the door and the door-sill; And if I make despatch, and follow hard, No doubt but I shall find him in the yard:" (For long ere now it should have been rehearsed, 'Twas in the garden that I found him first.) E'en there I found him: there the full-grown cat His head, with velvet paw, did gently pat; As curious as the kittens erst had been To learn what this phenomenon might mean. Filled with heroic ardour at the sight, And fearing every moment he would bite, And rob our household of our only cat That was of age to combat with a rat; With outstretched hoe I slew him at the door, And taught him never to come there no more!

_William Cowper._

THE RETIRED CAT

A Poet's Cat, sedate and grave As poet well could wish to have, Was much addicted to inquire For nooks to which she might retire, And where, secure as mouse in chink, She might repose, or sit and think. I know not where she caught the trick; Nature perhaps herself had cast her In such a mold |philosophique|, Or else she learned it of her master. Sometimes ascending, debonair, An apple-tree, or lofty pear, Lodged with convenience in the fork, She watched the gardener at his work; Sometimes her ease and solace sought In an old empty watering-pot, There wanting nothing, save a fan, To seem some nymph in her sedan, Appareled in exactest sort, And ready to be borne to court.

But love of change it seems has place Not only in our wiser race; Cats also feel, as well as we, That passion's force, and so did she. Her climbing, she began to find, Exposed her too much to the wind, And the old utensil of tin Was cold and comfortless within: She therefore wished, instead of those, Some place of more serene repose, Where neither cold might come, nor air Too rudely wanton in her hair, And sought it in the likeliest mode Within her master's snug abode.

A drawer, it chanced, at bottom lined With linen of the softest kind, With such as merchants introduce From India, for the ladies' use; A drawer, impending o'er the rest, Half open, in the topmost chest, Of depth enough, and none to spare, Invited her to slumber there; Puss with delight beyond expression, Surveyed the scene and took possession. Recumbent at her ease, ere long, And lulled by her own humdrum song, She left the cares of life behind, And slept as she would sleep her last, When in came, housewifely inclined, The chambermaid, and shut it fast, By no malignity impelled, But all unconscious whom it held.

Awakened by the shock (cried puss) "Was ever cat attended thus! The open drawer was left, I see, Merely to prove a nest for me, For soon as I was well composed, Then came the maid, and it was closed. How smooth those 'kerchiefs, and how sweet Oh what a delicate retreat! I will resign myself to rest Till Sol declining in the west, Shall call to supper, when, no doubt, Susan will come, and let me out."

The evening came, the sun descended, And puss remained still unattended. The night rolled tardily away (With her indeed 'twas never day), The sprightly morn her course renewed, The evening gray again ensued, And puss came into mind no more Than if entombed the day before; With hunger pinched, and pinched for room, She now presaged approaching doom. Nor slept a single wink, nor purred, Conscious of jeopardy incurred.

That night, by chance, the poet, watching, Heard an inexplicable scratching; His noble heart went pit-a-pat, And to himself he said--"What's that?" He drew the curtain at his side, And forth he peeped, but nothing spied. Yet, by his ear directed, guessed Something imprisoned in the chest; And, doubtful what, with prudent care Resolved it should continue there. At length a voice which well he knew, A long and melancholy mew, Saluting his poetic ears, Consoled him, and dispelled his fears; He left his bed, he trod the floor, He 'gan in haste the drawers explore, The lowest first, and without stop The next in order to the top. For 'tis a truth well known to most, That whatsoever thing is lost, We seek it, ere it come to light, In every cranny but the right. Forth skipped the cat, not now replete As erst with airy self-conceit, Nor in her own fond comprehension, A theme for all the world's attention, But modest, sober, cured of all Her notions hyperbolical, And wishing for a place of rest, Any thing rather than a chest. Then stepped the poet into bed With this reflection in his head:

MORAL

Beware of too sublime a sense Of your own worth and consequence. The man who dreams himself so great, And his importance of such weight, That all around in all that's done Must move and act for him alone, Will learn in school of tribulation The folly of his expectation.

_William Cowper._

A DARWINIAN BALLAD

Oh, many have told of the monkeys of old,
What a pleasant race they were,
And it seems most true that I and you
Are derived from an apish pair.
They all had nails, and some had tails,
And some--no "accounts in arrear";
They climbed up the trees, and they scratched out the--these
Of course I will not mention here.

They slept in a wood, or wherever they could,
For they didn't know how to make beds;
They hadn't got huts; they dined upon nuts,
Which they cracked upon each other's heads.
They hadn't much scope, for a comb, brush or soap,
Or towels, or kettle or fire.
They had no coats nor capes, for ne'er did these apes
Invent what they didn't require.

The sharpest baboon never used fork or spoon,
Nor made any boots for his toes,
Nor could any thief steal a silk handker-chief,
For no ape thought much of his nose;
They had cold collations; they ate poor relations:
Provided for thus, by-the-bye.
No Ou-rang-ou-tang a song ever sang--
He couldn't, and so didn't try.

From these though descended our manners are mended,
Though still we can grin and backbite!
We cut up each other, be he friend or brother,
And tales are the fashion--at night.
This origination is all speculation--
We gamble in various shapes;
So Mr. Darwin may speculate in
Our ancestors having been apes.

_Unknown._

THE PIG

A COLLOQUIAL POEM

Jacob! I do not like to see thy nose Turn'd up in scornful curve at yonder pig, It would be well, my friend, if we like him, Were perfect in our kind!... And why despise The sow-born grunter?... He is obstinate, Thou answerest; ugly, and the filthiest beast That banquets upon offal.... Now I pray you Hear the pig's counsel. Is he obstinate? We must not, Jacob, be deceived by words; We must not take them as unheeding hands Receive base money at the current worth But with a just suspicion try their sound, And in the even balance weight them well See now to what this obstinacy comes: A poor, mistreated, democratic beast, He knows that his unmerciful drivers seek Their profit, and not his. He hath not learned That pigs were made for man,... born to be brawn'd And baconized: that he must please to give Just what his gracious masters please to take; Perhaps his tusks, the weapons Nature gave For self-defense, the general privilege; Perhaps,... hark, Jacob! dost thou hear that horn? Woe to the young posterity of Pork! Their enemy is at hand. Again. Thou say'st The pig is ugly. Jacob, look at him! Those eyes have taught the lover flattery. His face,... nay, Jacob! Jacob! were it fair To judge a lady in her dishabille? Fancy it dressed, and with saltpeter rouged. Behold his tail, my friend; with curls like that The wanton hop marries her stately spouse: So crisp in beauty Amoretta's hair Rings round her lover's soul the chains of love. And what is beauty, but the aptitude Of parts harmonious? Give thy fancy scope, And thou wilt find that no imagined change Can beautify this beast. Place at his end The starry glories of the peacock's pride, Give him the swan's white breast; for his horn-hoofs Shape such a foot and ankle as the waves Crowded in eager rivalry to kiss When Venus from the enamor'd sea arose;... Jacob, thou canst but make a monster of him! An alteration man could think, would mar His pig-perfection. The last charge,... he lives A dirty life. Here I could shelter him With noble and right-reverend precedents. And show by sanction of authority That 'tis a very honorable thing To thrive by dirty ways. But let me rest On better ground the unanswerable defense. The pig is a philosopher, who knows No prejudice. Dirt?... Jacob, what is dirt? If matter,... why the delicate dish that tempts An o'ergorged epicure to the last morsel That stuffs him to the throat-gates, is no more. If matter be not, but as sages say, Spirit is all, and all things visible Are one, the infinitely modified, Think, Jacob, what that pig is, and the mire Wherein he stands knee-deep! And there! the breeze Pleads with me, and has won thee to a smile That speaks conviction. O'er yon blossom'd field Of beans it came, and thoughts of bacon rise.

_Robert Southey._

A FISH STORY

A whale of great porosity
And small specific gravity,
Dived down with much velocity
Beneath the sea's concavity.

But soon the weight of water
Squeezed in his fat immensity,
Which varied--as it ought to--
Inversely as his density.

It would have moved to pity
An Ogre or a Hessian,
To see poor Spermaceti
Thus suffering compression.

The while he lay a-roaring
In agonies gigantic,
The lamp-oil out came pouring,
And greased the wide Atlantic.

(Would we'd been in the Navy,
And cruising there! Imagine us
All in a sea of gravy,
With billow oleaginous!)

At length old million-pounder,
Low on a bed of coral,
Gave his last dying flounder,
Whereto I pen this moral.

MORAL

O, let this tale dramatic,
Anent the whale Norwegian
And pressure hydrostatic,
Warn you, my young collegian,

That down-compelling forces
Increase as you get deeper;
The lower down your course is,
The upward path's the steeper.

_Henry A. Beers._

THE CAMERONIAN CAT

There was a Cameronian cat
Was hunting for a prey,
And in the house she catched a mouse
Upon the Sabbath-day.

The Whig, being offended
At such an act profane,
Laid by his book, the cat he took,
And bound her in a chain.

"Thou damned, thou cursed creature!
This deed so dark with thee!
Think'st thou to bring to hell below
My holy wife and me?

"Assure thyself that for the deed
Thou blood for blood shalt pay,
For killing of the Lord's own mouse
Upon the Sabbath-day."

The presbyter laid by the book,
And earnestly he prayed
That the great sin the cat had done
Might not on him be laid.

And straight to execution
Poor pussy she was drawn,
And high hanged up upon a tree--
The preacher sung a psalm.

And, when the work was ended,
They thought the cat near dead;
She gave a paw, and then a mew,
And stretchèd out her head.

"Thy name," said he, "shall certainly
A beacon still remain,
A terror unto evil ones
For evermore, Amen."

_Unknown._

THE YOUNG GAZELLE

A MOORE-ISH TALE

In early youth, as you may guess,
I revelled in poetic lore,
And while my schoolmates studied less,
I resolutely studied _Moore_.

Those touching lines from "Lalla Rookh,"--
"Ah, ever thus--" you know them well,
Such root within my bosom took,
I wished _I_ had a young Gazelle.

Oh, yes! a sweet, a sweet Gazelle,
"To charm me with its soft black eye,"
So soft, so liquid, that a spell
Seems in that gem-like orb to lie.

Years, childhood passed, youth fled away,
My vain desire I'd learned to quell,
Till came that most auspicious day
When _some one gave me a Gazelle_.

With care, and trouble, and expense,
'Twas brought from Afric's northern cape;
It seemed of great intelligence,
And oh! so beautiful a shape.

Its lustrous, liquid eye was bent
With special lovingness on me;
No gift that mortal could present
More welcome to my heart could be.

I brought him food with fond caress,
Built him a hut, snug, neat, and warm;
I called him "Selim," to express
The marked _s(e)lim_ness of his form.

The little creature grew so tame,
He "learned to know (the neighbors) well;"
And then the ladies, when they came,
Oh! how they "nursed that dear Gazelle."

But, woe is me! on earthly ground
Some ill with every blessing dwells;
And soon to my dismay I found
That this applies to young Gazelles.

When free allowed to roam indoors,
The mischief that he did was great;
The walls, the furniture, the floors,
He made in a terrific state.

He nibbled at the table-cloth,
And trod the carpet into holes,
And in his gambols, nothing loth,
Kicked over scuttles full of coals.

To view his image in the glass,
He reared upon his hinder legs;
And thus one morn I found, alas!
Two porcelain vases smashed like eggs.

Whatever did his fancy catch
By way of food, he would not wait
To be invited, but would snatch
It from one's table, hand, or plate.

He riled the dog, annoyed the cat,
And scared the goldfish into fits;
He butted through my newest hat,
And tore my manuscript to bits.

'Twas strange, so light his hooflets weighed,
His limbs as slender as a hare's,
The noise my little Selim made
In trotting up and down the stairs.

To tie him up I thought was wise,
But loss of freedom gave him pain;
I could not stand those pleading eyes,
And so I let him go again.

How sweet to see him skip and prance
Upon the gravel or the lawn;
More light in step than fairies' dance,
More graceful than an English fawn.

But then he spoilt the garden so,
Trod down the beds, raked up the seeds,
And ate the plants--nor did he show
The least compunction for his deeds.

He trespassed on the neighbors' ground,
And broke two costly melon frames,
With other damages--a pound
To pay, resulted from his games.

In short, the mischief was immense
That from his gamesome pranks befel,
And, truly, in a double sense,
He proved a _very_ "dear Gazelle."

At length I sighed--"Ah, ever thus
Doth disappointment mock each hope;
But 'tis in vain to make a fuss;
You'll have to go, my antelope."

The chance I wished for did occur;
A lady going to the East
Was willing; so I gave to her
That little antelopian beast.

I said, "This antler'd desert child
In Turkish palaces may roam,
But he is much too free and wild
To keep in any English home."

Yes, tho' I gave him up with tears,
Experience had broke the spell,
And if I live a thousand years,
I'll never have a young Gazelle.

_Walter Parke._

THE BALLAD OF THE EMEU

O say, have you seen at the Willows so green--
So charming and rurally true--
A Singular bird; with a manner absurd,
Which they call the Australian Emeu?
Have you?
Ever seen this Australian Emeu?

It trots all around with its head on the ground,
Or erects it quite out of your view;
And the ladies all cry, when its figure they spy,
"O, what a sweet pretty Emeu!
Oh! do
Just look at that lovely Emeu!"

One day to this spot, when the weather was hot,
Came Matilda Hortense Fortescue;
And beside her there came a youth of high name
Augustus Florell Montague:
The two
Both loved that wild foreign Emeu.

With two loaves of bread then they fed it, instead
Of the flesh of the white cockatoo,
Which once was its food in that wild neighbourhood
Where ranges the sweet kangaroo
That, too,
Is game for the famous Emeu!

Old saws and gimlets but its appetite whet
Like the world famous bark of Peru;
There's nothing so hard that the bird will discard,
And nothing its taste will eschew,
That you
Can give that long-legged Emeu!

The time slipped away in this innocent play,
When up jumped the bold Montague:
"Where's that specimen pin that I gaily did win
In raffle, and gave unto you,
Fortescue?"
No word spoke the guilty Emeu!

"Quick! tell me his name whom thou gavest that same,
Ere these hands in thy blood I imbrue!"
"Nay, dearest," she cried as she clung to his side,
"I'm innocent as that Emeu!"
"Adieu!"
He replied, "Miss M. H. Fortescue!"

Down she dropped at his feet, all as white as a sheet,
As wildly he fled from her view;
He thought 'twas her sin--for he knew not the pin
Had been gobbled up by the Emeu;
All through
"I'm innocent as that Emeu!"

_Bret Harte._

THE TURTLE AND FLAMINGO

A lively young turtle lived down by the banks Of a dark rolling stream called the Jingo; And one summer day, as he went out to play, Fell in love with a charming flamingo-- An enormously genteel flamingo! An expansively crimson flamingo! A beautiful, bouncing flamingo!

Spake the turtle, in tones like a delicate wheeze: "To the water I've oft seen you in go, And your form has impressed itself deep on my shell, You perfectly modelled flamingo! You tremendously A-1 flamingo! You in-ex-press-_i_-ble flamingo!

"To be sure, I'm a turtle, and you are a belle, And my language is not your fine lingo; But smile on me, tall one, and be my bright flame, You miraculous, wondrous flamingo! You blazingly beauteous flamingo! You turtle-absorbing flamingo! You inflammably gorgeous flamingo!"

Then the proud bird blushed redder than ever before, And that was quite un-nec-es-_sa_-ry, And she stood on one leg and looked out of one eye, The position of things for to vary,-- This aquatical, musing flamingo! This dreamy, uncertain flamingo! This embarrasing, harassing flamingo!

Then she cried to the quadruped, greatly amazed: "Why your passion toward _me_ do you hurtle? I'm an ornithological wonder of grace, And you're an illogical turtle,-- A waddling, impossible turtle! A low-minded, grass-eating turtle! A highly improbable turtle!"

Then the turtle sneaked off with his nose to the ground And never more looked at the lasses; And falling asleep, while indulging his grief, Was gobbled up whole by Agassiz,-- The peripatetic Agassiz! The turtle-dissecting Agassiz! The illustrious, industrious Agassiz!

Go with me to Cambridge some cool, pleasant day, And the skeleton lover I'll show you; He's in a hard case, but he'll look in your face, Pretending (the rogue!) he don't know you! Oh, the deeply deceptive young turtle! The double-faced, glassy-cased turtle! The _green_ but a very _mock_ turtle!

_James Thomas Fields._

XV

JUNIORS

PRIOR TO MISS BELLE'S APPEARANCE

What makes you come _here_ fer, Mister, So much to _our_ house?--_Say_? Come to see our big sister!-- An' Charley he says 'at you kissed her An' he ketched you, thuther day!-- Didn' you, Charley?--But we p'omised Belle And crossed our heart to never to tell-- 'Cause _she_ gived us some o' them-er Chawk'lut-drops 'at you bringed to her!

Charley he's my little b'uther-- An' we has a-mostest fun, Don't we, Charley?--Our Muther, Whenever we whips one-anuther, Tries to whip _us_--an' we _run_-- Don't we, Charley?--An' nen, bime-by, Nen she gives us cake--an' pie-- Don't she, Charley?--when we come in An' p'omise never to do it agin!

_He's_ named Charley.--I'm _Willie_-- An' I'm got the purtiest name! But Uncle Bob _he_ calls me "Billy"-- Don't he, Charley?--'Nour filly We named "Billy," the same Ist like me! An' our Ma said 'At "Bob put foolishnuss into our head!"-- Didn' she, Charley?--An' _she_ don't know Much about _boys_!--'Cause Bob said so!

Baby's a funniest feller! Naint no hair on his head-- _Is_ they, Charley? It's meller Wite up there! An' ef Belle er Us ask wuz _we_ that way, Ma said,-- "Yes; an' yer _Pa's_ head wuz soft as that, An' it's that way yet!"--An' Pa grabs his hat An' says, "Yes, childern, she's right about Pa-- 'Cause that's the reason he married yer Ma!"

An' our Ma says 'at "Belle couldn' Ketch nothin 'at all but ist _'bows!'_" An' _Pa_ says 'at "you're soft as puddun!"-- An _Uncle Bob_ says "you're a good-un-- 'Cause he can tell by yer nose!"-- Didn' he, Charley? And when Belle'll play In the poller on th' pianer, some day, Bob makes up funny songs about you, Till she gits mad--like he wants her to!

Our sister _Fanny_, she's _'leven_ Years old. 'At's mucher 'an _I_-- Ain't it, Charley?... I'm seven!-- But our sister Fanny's in _Heaven_! Nere's where you go ef you die!-- Don't you, Charley? Nen you has _wings_-- _Ist like Fanny_!--an' _purtiest things_!-- Don't you, Charley? An' nen you can _fly_-- Ist fly--an' _ever'_thing!... Wisht _I'd_ die!

_James Whitcomb Riley._

THERE WAS A LITTLE GIRL

There was a little girl, And she had a little curl Right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good She was very, very good, And when she was bad she was horrid.

One day she went upstairs, When her parents, unawares, In the kitchen were occupied with meals And she stood upon her head In her little trundle-bed, And then began hooraying with her heels.

Her mother heard the noise, And she thought it was the boys A-playing at a combat in the attic; But when she climbed the stair, And found Jemima there, She took and she did spank her most emphatic.

_Unknown._

THE NAUGHTY DARKEY BOY

There was a cruel darkey boy,
Who sat upon the shore,
A catching little fishes by
The dozen and the score.

And as they squirmed and wriggled there,
He shouted loud with glee,
"You surely cannot want to live,
You're little-er dan me."

Just then with a malicious leer,
And a capacious smile,
Before him from the water deep
There rose a crocodile.

He eyed the little darkey boy,
Then heaved a blubbering sigh,
And said, "You cannot want to live,
You're little-er than I."

The fishes squirm and wriggle still,
Beside that sandy shore,
The cruel little darkey boy,
Was never heard of more.

_Unknown._

DUTCH LULLABY

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe,--
Sailed on a river of misty light
Into a sea of dew.
"Where are you going, and what do you wish?"
The old moon asked the three.
"We have come to fish for the herring-fish
That live in this beautiful sea;
Nets of silver and gold have we,"
Said Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.

The old moon laughed and sung a song,
As they rocked in the wooden shoe;
And the wind that sped them all night long
Ruffled the waves of dew;
The little stars were the herring-fish
That lived in the beautiful sea.
"Now cast your nets wherever you wish,
But never afeard are we!"
So cried the stars to the fishermen three,
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.

All night long their nets they threw
For the fish in the twinkling foam,
Then down from the sky came the wooden shoe,
Bringing the fishermen home;
'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed
As if it could not be;
And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed
Of sailing that beautiful sea;
But I shall name you the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
And Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
Is a wee one's trundle-bed;
So shut your eyes while Mother sings
Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
As you rock on the misty sea
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three,
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.

_Eugene Field._

THE DINKEY-BIRD

In an ocean, 'way out yonder
(As all sapient people know),
Is the land of Wonder-Wander,
Whither children love to go;
It's their playing, romping, swinging,
That give great joy to me
While the Dinkey-Bird goes singing
In the Amfalula-tree!

There the gum-drops grow like cherries,
And taffy's thick as peas,--
Caramels you pick like berries
When, and where, and how you please
Big red sugar-plums are clinging
To the cliffs beside that sea
Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing
In the Amfalula-tree.

So when children shout and scamper
And make merry all the day,
When there's naught to put a damper
To the ardor of their play;
When I hear their laughter ringing,
Then I'm sure as sure can be
That the Dinkey-Bird is singing
In the Amfalula-tree.

For the Dinkey-Bird's bravuras
And staccatos are so sweet--
His roulades, appogiaturas,
And robustos so complete,
That the youth of every nation--
Be they near or far away--
Have especial delectation
In that gladsome roundelay.

Their eyes grow bright and brighter,
Their lungs begin to crow,
Their hearts get light and lighter,
And their cheeks are all aglow;
For an echo cometh bringing
The news to all and me
That the Dinkey-Bird is singing
In the Amfalula-tree.

I'm sure you'd like to go there
To see your feathered friend--
And so many goodies grow there
You would like to comprehend!
_Speed, little dreams, your winging
To that land across the sea
Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing
In the Amfalula-Tree!_

_Eugene Field._

THE LITTLE PEACH

A little peach in the orchard grew, A little peach of emerald hue: Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew, It grew.

One day, walking the orchard through, That little peach dawned on the view Of Johnny Jones and his sister Sue-- Those two.

Up at the peach a club they threw: Down from the limb on which it grew, Fell the little peach of emerald hue-- Too true!

John took a bite, and Sue took a chew, And then the trouble began to brew,-- Trouble the doctor couldn't subdue,-- Paregoric too.

Under the turf where the daisies grew, They planted John and his sister Sue; And their little souls to the angels flew-- Boo-hoo!

But what of the peach of emerald hue, Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew? Ah, well! its mission on earth is through-- Adieu!

_Eugene Field._

COUNSEL TO THOSE THAT EAT

With chocolate-cream that you buy in the cake Large mouthfuls and hurry are quite a mistake.

Wise persons prolong it as long as they can But putting in practice this excellent plan.

The cream from the chocolate lining they dig With a Runaway match or a clean little twig.

Many hundreds,--nay, thousands--of scoopings they make Before they've exhausted a twopenny cake.

With ices 'tis equally wrongful to haste; You ought to go slowly and dwell on each taste.

Large mouthfuls are painful, as well as unwise, For they lead to an ache at the back of the eyes.

And the delicate sip is e'en better, one finds, If the ice is a mixture of different kinds.

_Unknown._

HOME AND MOTHER

Sleep, my own darling,
By, baby, by;
Mother is with thee,
By, baby, by.
There, baby. (Oh, how the wild winds wail!)
Hush, baby. (Turning to sleet and hail;
Ah, how the pine-tree moans and mutters!--
I wonder if Ellen will think of the shutters?)

Sleep, my own darling,
By, baby, by;
Mother is with thee,
By, baby, by.
Rest thee. (She couldn't have left the blower
Down in the parlor? There's so much to show her!)
By-by, my sweetest. (Now the rain's pouring!
Is it wind or the dining-room fire that's roaring?)

Sleep, my own darling,
By, baby, by;
Mother is with thee,
By, baby, by.
How lovely his forehead!--my own blessed pet!
He's nearly asleep. (Now I mustn't forget
That pork in the brine, and the stair-rods to-morrow.)
Heaven shield him forever from trouble and sorrow!

Sleep, my own darling,
By, baby, by;
Mother is with thee,
By, baby, by.
Those dear little ringlets, so silky and bright!
(I do hope the muffins will be nice and light.)
How lovely he is! (Yes, she said she could fry.)
Oh, what would I do if my baby should die!

Sleep, my own darling,
By, baby, by;
Mother is with thee,
By, baby, by.
That sweet little hand, and the soft, dimpled cheek!
Sleep, darling. (I'll have his clothes shortened this week.
How tightly he's holding my dress; I'm afraid
He'll wake when I move. There! his bed isn't made!)

Sleep, my own darling,
By, baby, by;
In thy soft cradle
Peacefully lie.
(He's settled at last. But I can't leave him so,
Though I ought to be going this instant, I know.
There's everything standing and waiting down-stairs.
Ah me, but a mother is cumbered with cares!)

_Mary Mapes Dodge._

LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE

Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay, An' wash the cups and saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away, An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep, An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep; An' all us other children, when the supper things is done, We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about, An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you Ef you Don't Watch Out!

Onc't there was a little boy wouldn't say his pray'rs-- An' when he went to bed at night, away up stairs, His mammy heerd him holler, an' his daddy heerd him bawl, An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wasn't there at all! An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press, An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'wheres, I guess; But all they ever found was thist his pants an' roundabout! An' the Gobble-uns'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out!

An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin, An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood-an'-kin; An' onc't when they was "company," an' ole folks was there, She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care! An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide, They was two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side, An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about! An' the Gobble-uns'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out!

An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue, An' the lampwick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo! An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray, An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away,-- You better mind yer parents, and yer teachers fond and dear, An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear, An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about, Er the Gobble-uns'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out!

_James Whitcomb Riley._

A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap, When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters, and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow Gave a luster of mid-day to objects below, When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer, With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name; "Now, _Dasher_! now, _Dancer_! now, _Prancer_ and _Vixen_! On, _Comet_! on, _Cupid_! on, _Dunder_ and _Blitzen_! To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall! Now, dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!" As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky; So up to the housetop the coursers they flew, With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas, too. And then in a twinkling, I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack. His eyes--how they twinkled!--his dimples how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow; The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath; He had a broad face and a round little belly, That shook when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly. He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself; A wink of his eye and a twist of his head, Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread; He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose; He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle; But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, "_Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night_!"

_Clement Clarke Moore._

A NURSERY LEGEND

Oh! listen, little children, to a proper little song Of a naughty little urchin who was always doing wrong: He disobey'd his mammy, and he disobey'd his dad, And he disobey'd his uncle, which was very near as bad. He wouldn't learn to cipher, and he wouldn't learn to write, But he _would_ tear up his copy-books to fabricate a kite; And he used his slate and pencil in so barbarous a way, That the grinders of his governess got looser ev'ry day.

At last he grew so obstinate that no one could contrive To cure him of a theory that two and two made five And, when they taught him how to spell, he show'd his wicked whims By mutilating Pinnock and mislaying Watts's Hymns. Instead of all such pretty books, (which _must_ improve the mind,) He cultivated volumes of a most improper kind; Directories and almanacks he studied on the sly, And gloated over Bradshaw's Guide when nobody was by.

From such a course of reading you can easily divine The condition of his morals at the age of eight or nine. His tone of conversation kept becoming worse and worse, Till it scandalised his governess and horrified his nurse. He quoted bits of Bradshaw that were quite unfit to hear, And recited from the Almanack, no matter who was near: He talked of Reigate Junction and of trains both up and down, And referr'd to men who call'd themselves Jones, Robinson, and Brown.

But when this naughty boy grew up he found the proverb true, That Fate one day makes people pay for all the wrong they do. He was cheated out of money by a man whose name was Brown, And got crippled in a railway smash while coming up to town. So, little boys and little girls, take warning while you can, And profit by the history of this unhappy man. Read Dr. Watts and Pinnock, dears; and when you learn to spell, Shun Railway Guides, Directories, and Almanacks as well!

_Henry S. Leigh._

A LITTLE GOOSE

The chill November day was done,
The working world home faring;
The wind came roaring through the streets
And set the gas-lights flaring;
And hopelessly and aimlessly
The scared old leaves were flying;
When, mingled with the sighing wind,
I heard a small voice crying.

And shivering on the corner stood
A child of four, or over;
No cloak or hat her small, soft arms,
And wind blown curls to cover.
Her dimpled face was stained with tears;
Her round blue eyes ran over;
She cherished in her wee, cold hand,
A bunch of faded clover.

And one hand round her treasure while
She slipped in mine the other:
Half scared, half confidential, said,
"Oh! please, I want my mother!"
"Tell me your street and number, pet:
Don't cry, I'll take you to it."
Sobbing she answered, "I forget:
The organ made me do it.

"He came and played at Milly's steps,
The monkey took the money;
And so I followed down the street,
The monkey was so funny.
I've walked about a hundred hours,
From one street to another:
The monkey's gone, I've spoiled my flowers,
Oh! please, I want my mother."

"But what's your mother's name? and what
The street? Now think a minute."
"My mother's name is mamma dear--
The street--I can't begin it."
"But what is strange about the house,
Or new--not like the others?"
"I guess you mean my trundle-bed,
Mine and my little brother's.

"Oh dear! I ought to be at home
To help him say his prayers,--
He's such a baby he forgets;
And we are both such players;--
And there's a bar to keep us both
From pitching on each other,
For Harry rolls when he's asleep:
Oh dear! I want my mother."

The sky grew stormy; people passed
All muffled, homeward faring:
"You'll have to spend the night with me,"
I said at last, despairing,
I tied a kerchief round her neck--
"What ribbon's this, my blossom?"
"Why don't you know!" she smiling, said,
And drew it from her bosom.

A card with number, street, and name;
My eyes astonished met it;
"For," said the little one, "you see
I might sometimes forget it:
And so I wear a little thing
That tells you all about it;
For mother says she's very sure
I should get lost without it."

_Eliza Sproat Turner._

LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS

I haf von funny leedle poy,
Vot comes schust to mine knee;
Der queerest schap, der createst rogue,
As efer you dit see.
He runs, und schumps, und schmashes dings
In all barts off der house:
But vot off dot? He vas mine son,
Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He get der measles und der mumbs
And eferyding dot's oudt;
He sbills mine glass off lager bier,
Poots schnuff indo mine kraut.
He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese--
Dot vas der roughest chouse;
I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy
But leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum,
Und cuts mine cane in dwo,
To make der schticks to beat it mit--
Mine cracious, dot vas drue!
I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart,
He kicks oup sooch a touse:
But nefer mind; der poys vas few
Like dot young Yawcob Strauss.