Chapter IX

Kitty and terrier, biddy and doves,
All things harmless Gustava loves.
The shy, kind creatures 'tis joy to feed,
And oh her breakfast is sweet indeed
To happy little Gustava!

Celia Thaxter.

_A Bunch of Roses_

The rosy mouth and rosy toe
Of little baby brother,
Until about a month ago
Had never met each other;
But nowadays the neighbours sweet,
In every sort of weather,
Half way with rosy fingers meet,
To kiss and play together.

John B. Tabb.

_The Child_

_At Bethlehem_

Long, long before the Babe could speak,
When he would kiss his mother's cheek
And to her bosom press,
The brightest angels standing near
Would turn away to hide a tear--
For they are motherless.

John B. Tabb

_After the Storm_

And when,--its force expended,
The harmless storm was ended,
And as the sunrise splendid
Came blushing o'er the sea--
I thought, as day was breaking,
My little girls were waking,
And smiling and making
A prayer at home for me.

William Makepeace Thackeray.

_Lucy Gray_

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray;
And, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day
The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade, Lucy knew;
She dwelt on a wide moor,--
The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.

"To-night will be a stormy night--
You to the town must go:
And take a lantern, child, to light
Your mother through the snow."

"That, father, will I gladly do:
'Tis scarcely afternoon--
The minster-clock has just struck two;
And yonder is the moon."

At this the father raised his hook,
And snapped a faggot-band;
He plied his work;--and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe:
With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time
She wandered up and down;
And many a hill did Lucy climb,
But never reached the town.

The wretched parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide;
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.

At daybreak on a hill they stood
That overlooked the moor;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
A furlong from their door.

They wept--and, turning homeward, cried,
"In heaven we all shall meet!"
When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downwards from the steep hill's edge
They tracked the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
And by the low stone wall:

And then an open field they crossed;
The marks were still the same;
They tracked them on, nor ever lost;
And to the bridge they came.

They follow from the snowy bank
Those footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank;
And further there were none!

--Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living child;
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,
And never looks behind;
And sings a solitary song
That whistles in the wind.

William Wordsworth

_Deaf and Dumb_

He lies on the grass, looking up to the sky;
Blue butterflies pass like a breath or a sigh,
The shy little hare runs confidingly near,
And wise rabbits stare with inquiry, not fear:
Gay squirrels have found him and made him their choice;
All creatures flock round him, and seem to rejoice.

Wild ladybirds leap on his cheek fresh and fair,
Young partridges creep, nestling under his hair,
Brown honey-bees drop something sweet on his lips,
Rash grasshoppers hop on his round finger-tips,
Birds hover above him with musical call;
All things seem to love him, and he loves them all.

Is nothing afraid of the boy lying there?
Would all nature aid if he wanted its care?
Things timid and wild with soft eagerness come.
Ah, poor little child!--he is deaf--he is dumb.
But what can have brought them? but how can they know?
What instinct has taught them to cherish him so?

Since first he could walk they have served him like this.
His lips could not talk, but they found they could kiss.
They made him a court, and they crowned him a king;
Ah, who could have thought of so lovely a thing?
They found him so pretty, they gave him their hearts,
And some divine pity has taught them their parts!

"A."

_The Blind Boy_

O, say, what is that thing called Light,
Which I must ne'er enjoy?
What are the blessings of the sight?
O tell your poor blind boy!

You talk of wondrous things you see;
You say the sun shines bright;
I feel him warm, but how can he
Make either day or night?

My day and night myself I make,
Whene'er I sleep or play,
And could I always keep awake,
With me 'twere always day.

With heavy sighs I often hear
You mourn my hapless woe;
But sure with patience I can bear
A loss I ne'er can know.

Then let not what I cannot have
My peace of mind destroy;
Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,
Although a poor blind boy!

Colley Cibber.