Chapter XVIII: Part II (1)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BIRDS AND FLOWERS

AND OTHER

COUNTRY THINGS.

THE STORMY PETEREL.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE POOR MAN’S GARDEN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE OAK-TREE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE CAROLINA PARROT.

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

POLL’S MISTRESS.

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

POLL.

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

CAPTAIN.

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

POLL.

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

CAPTAIN.

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

PARROT.

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

Captain.

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

PARROT.

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

CAPTAIN.

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

PARROT.

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

_Exit_ POLL.

MORNING THOUGHTS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

HARVEST-FIELD FLOWERS.

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

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

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

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

SUMMER WOODS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE CUCKOO.

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

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

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

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

THE USE OF FLOWERS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SUNSHINE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SUMMER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE CHILD AND THE FLOWERS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHILDHOOD.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

L’ENVOI.

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

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

SKETCHES OF NATURAL HISTORY.

TO
ANNA MARY AND ALFRED WILLIAM HOWITT,

THESE SKETCHES,

ORIGINALLY WRITTEN FOR THEIR AMUSEMENT,
ARE AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED.

SKETCHES OF NATURAL HISTORY.

THE COOT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE EAGLE.

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

THE GARDEN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE SPIDER AND THE FLY.

AN APOLOGUE.

A NEW VERSION OF AN OLD STORY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TALES IN VERSE.

ANDREW LEE.

THE FISHER BOY.

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

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

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

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

THE WANDERER’S RETURN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A SWINGING SONG.

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