Chapter II: Preface (2)

I won't sleep there; I'm resolved on that!
They may think I will, but they little know
There's a soft persistence about a cat
That even a little kitten can show.

I wish I knew what to do but pout,
And spit at the dogs and refuse my tea;
My fur's feeling rough, and I rather doubt
Whether stolen sausage agrees with me.

On the drawing-room sofa they've closed the door,
They've turned me out of the easy-chairs;
I wonder it never struck me before
That they make their beds for themselves up-stairs.

* * * * *

I've found a crib where they won't find me,
Though they're crying "Kitty!" all over the house.
Hunt for the Slipper! and riddle-my-ree!
A cat can keep as still as a mouse.

It's rather unwise perhaps to purr,
But they'll never think of the wardrobe-shelves.
I'm happy in every hair of my fur;
They may keep the hamper and hay themselves.

THE MILL STREAM.

One of a hundred little rills--
Born in the hills,
Nourished with dews by the earth, and with tears by the sky,
Sang--"Who so mighty as I?
The farther I flow
The bigger I grow.
I, who was born but a little rill,
Now turn the big wheel of the mill,
Though the surly slave would rather stand still.
Old, and weed-hung, and grim,
I am not afraid of him;
For when I come running and dance on his toes,
With a creak and a groan the monster goes.
And turns faster and faster,
As he learns who is master,
Round and round,
Till the corn is ground,
And the miller smiles as he stands on the bank,
And knows he has me to thank.
Then when he swings the fine sacks of flour,
I feel my power;
But when the children enjoy their food,
I know I'm not only great but good!"

Furthermore sang the brook--
"Who loves the beautiful, let him look!
Garlanding me in shady spots
The Forget-me-nots
Are blue as the summer sky:
Who so lovely as I?
My King-cups of gold
Shine from the shade of the alders old,
Stars of the stream!--
At the water-rat's threshold they gleam.
From below
The Frog-bit spreads me its blossoms of snow,
And in masses
The Willow-herb, the flags, and the grasses,
Reeds, rushes, and sedges,
Flower and fringe and feather my edges.
To be beautiful is not amiss,
But to be loved is more than this;
And who more sought than I,
By all that run or swim or crawl or fly?
Sober shell-fish and frivolous gnats,
Tawny-eyed water-rats;
The poet with rippling rhymes so fluent,
Boys with boats playing truant,
Cattle wading knee-deep for water;
And the flower-plucking parson's daughter.
Down in my depths dwell creeping things
Who rise from my bosom on rainbow wings,
For--too swift for a school-boy's prize--
Hither and thither above me dart the prismatic-hued dragon-flies.
At my side the lover lingers,
And with lack-a-daisical fingers,
The Weeping Willow, woe-begone,
Strives to stay me as I run on."

There came an hour
When all this beauty and love and power
Did seem
But a small thing to that Mill Stream.
And then his cry
Was, "Why, oh! why
Am I thus surrounded
With checks and limits, and bounded
By bank and border
To keep me in order,
Against my will?
I, who was born to be free and unfettered--a mountain rill!
But for these jealous banks, the good
Of my gracious and fertilizing flood
Might spread to the barren highways,
And fill with Forget-me-nots countless neglected byways.
Why should the rough-barked Willow for ever lave
Her feet in my cooling wave;
When the tender and beautiful Beech
Faints with midsummer heat in the meadow just out of my reach?
Could I but rush with unchecked power,
The miller might grind a day's corn in an hour.
And what are the ends
Of life, but to serve one's friends?"

A day did dawn at last,
When the spirits of the storm and the blast,
Breaking the bands of the winter's frost and snow,
Swept from the mountain source of the stream, and flooded the
valley below.
Dams were broken and weirs came down;
Cottage and mill, country and town,
Shared in the general inundation,
And the following desolation.
Then the Mill Stream rose in its might,
And burst out of bounds to left and to right,
Rushed to the beautiful Beech,
In the meadow far out of reach.
But with such torrents the poor tree died,
Torn up by the roots, and laid on its side.
The cattle swam till they sank,
Trying to find a bank.
Never more shall the broken water-wheel
Grind the corn to make the meal,
To make the children's bread.
The miller was dead.

When the setting sun
Looked to see what the Mill Stream had done
In its hour
Of unlimited power,
And what was left when that had passed by,
Behold the channel was stony and dry.
In uttermost ruin
The Mill Stream had been its own undoing.
Furthermore it had drowned its friend:
This was the end.

BOY AND SQUIRREL.

Oh boy, down there, I can't believe that what they say is true!
We squirrels surely cannot have an enemy in you;
We have so much in common, my dear friend, it seems to me
That I can really feel for you, and you can feel for me.

Some human beings might not understand the life we lead;
If we asked Dr. Birch to play, no doubt he'd rather read;
He hates all scrambling restlessness, and chattering, scuffling noise;
If he could catch us we should fare no better than you boys.

Fine ladies, too, whose flounces catch and tear on every stump,
What joy have they in jagged pines, who neither skip nor jump?
Miss Mittens never saw my tree-top home--so unlike hers;
What wonder if her only thought of squirrels is of furs?

But you, dear boy, you know so well the bliss of climbing trees,
Of scrambling up and sliding down, and rocking in the breeze,
Of cracking nuts and chewing cones, and keeping cunning hoards,
And all the games and all the sport and fun a wood affords.

It cannot be that you would make a prisoner of me,
Who hate yourself to be cooped up, who love so to be free;
An extra hour indoors, I know, is punishment to you;
_You_ make _me_ twirl a tiny cage? It never can be true!

Yet I've a wary grandfather, whose tail is white as snow.
He thinks he knows a lot of things we young ones do not know;
He says we're safe with Doctor Birch, because he is so blind,
And that Miss Mittens would not hurt a fly, for she is kind.

But you, dear boy, who know my ways, he bids me fly from you,
He says my life and liberty are lost unless I do;
That you, who fear the Doctor's cane, will fling big sticks at me,
And tear me from my forest home, and from my favourite tree.

The more we think of what he says, the more we're sure it's "chaff,"
We sit beneath the shadow of our bushy tails and laugh;
Hey, presto! Friend, come up, and let us hide and seek and play,
If you could spring as well as climb, what fun we'd have to-day!

LITTLE MASTER TO HIS BIG DOG.

Oh, how greedy you look as you stare at my plate,
Your mouth waters so, and your big tail is drumming
Flop! flop! flop! on the carpet, and yet if you'll wait,
When we have quite finished, your dinner is coming.

Yes! I know what you mean, though you don't speak a word;
You say that you wish that I kindly would let you
Take your meals with the family, which is absurd,
And on a tall chair like a gentleman set you.

But how little you think, my dear dog, when you talk;
You've no "table manners," you bolt meat, you gobble;
And how could you eat bones with a knife, spoon, and fork?
You would be in a most inconvenient hobble.

And yet, once on a time it is certainly true,
My own manners wanted no little refining;
For I gobbled, and spilled, and was greedy like you,
And had no idea of good manners when dining.

So that when I consider the tricks _you_ have caught,
To sit or shake paws with the utmost good breeding,
I must own it quite possible you may be taught
The use of a plate, and a nice style of feeding.

Therefore try to learn manners, and eat as I do;
Don't glare at the joint, and as soon as you're able
To behave like the rest, you shall feed with us too,
And dine like a gentleman sitting at table.

A SWEET LITTLE DEAR

I always _was_ a remarkable child; so old for my age, and such a
sensitive nature!--Mamma often says so.
And I'm the sweetest, little dear in my blue ribbons, and quite a
picture in my Pompadour hat!--Mrs. Brown told her so on
Sunday, and that's how I know.
And I'm a sacred responsibility to my parents--(it was what the
clergyman's wife at the seaside said),
And a solemn charge, and a fair white page, and a tender bud, and
a spotless nature of wax to be moulded;--but the rest of
it has gone out of my head.
There was a lot more, and she left two books as well, and I think she
called me a Privilege, and Mamma said "Yes," and began to cry.
And Nurse came in with luncheon on a tray, and put away the books, and
said she was as weak as a kitten, and worried to
fiddlestrings, as any one with common sense could see with
half an eye.
I was hopping round the room, but I stopped and said, "My kitten's not
weak, and I don't believe anybody could see with only half an
eye. Could they, Mamma?"
And Nurse said, "Go and play, my dear, and let your Mamma rest;"
but Mamma said, "No, my love, stay where you are.
Dear Nurse, lift me up, and put a pillow to my back, I know
you mean to be kind;
But she does ask such remarkable questions, and while I've strength
to speak, don't let me check the inquiring mind.
If I should fail to be all a mother ought--oh, how my head throbs when
the dear child jumps!" and then Nurse said, "Ugh!
When you're worried into your grave, she'll have no mother at all,
and'll have to tumble up as other folks do.
There's the poor master at his wits' end--a child's not all a grown
person has to think of--and Miss Jane would do well enough if
she'd less of her own way;
But there's more children spoilt with care than the want of it, and
more mothers murdered than there's folks hanged for, and
that's what I say.
Children learns what you teach 'em, and Miss Jane's old enough to have
learned to wait upon you:
And if her mother thought less of her and she thought more of her
mother, it would be better for her too."
But Nurse is a nasty cross old thing--I hate her; and I hate the
doctor, for he wanted me to be left behind
When Mamma went to the sea for her health; but I begged and begged
till she promised I should go, for Mamma is always kind.
And she bought me a new wooden spade and a basket, and a red and green
ship with three masts, and a one-and-sixpenny telescope to
look at the sea;
But when I got on to the sands, I thought I'd rather be on the
esplanade, for there was a little girl there who was
looking at me,
Dressed in a navy-blue suit and a sailor hat, with fair hair tied
with ribbons; so I told Mamma,
And she got me a suit, ready-made (but she said it was dreadfully
dear), and a hat to match, in the Pebble Brooch Repository
and Universal Bazaar.
It faded in the sun, and came all to pieces in the wash; but I was
tired of it before.
For the esplanade is very dull, and the little girl with fair hair had
got sand-boots and a shrimping-net and was playing on
the shore.
And when my sand-boots came home, and I'd got a better net than hers,
she went donkey-riding, and I knew it was to tease me,
But Nurse was so cross, and said if they sent a man in a herring-boat
to the moon for what I wanted that nothing would please me.
So I said the seaside was a very disagreeable place, and I wished I
hadn't come,
And I told Mamma so, and begged her to try and get well soon, to take
us all home.
But now we've got home, it's very hot, and I'm afraid of the wasps;
and I'm sure it was cooler at the sea,
And the Smiths won't be back for a fortnight, so I can't even have
Matilda to tea.
I don't care much for my new doll--I think I'm too old for dolls now;
I like books better, though I didn't like the last,
And I've read all I have: I always skip the dull parts, and when you
skip a good deal you get through them so fast.
I like toys if they're the best kind, with works; though when I've had
one good game with them, I don't much care to play with
them again.
I feel as if I wanted something new to amuse me, and Mamma says it's
because I've got such an active brain.
Nurse says I don't know what I want, and I know I don't, and that's
just what it is.
It seems so sad a young creature like me should feel unhappy, and not
know what's amiss;
But Nurse never thinks of my feelings, any more than the cruel nurse
in the story about the little girl who was so good,
And if I die early as she did, perhaps then people will be sorry I've
been misunderstood.
I shouldn't like to die early, but I should like people to be sorry
for me, and to praise me when I was dead:
If I could only come to life again when they had missed me very much,
and I'd heard what they said--
Of course that's impossible, I know, but I wish I knew what to
do instead!
It seems such a pity that a sweet little dear like me should
ever be sad.
And Mamma says she buys everything I want, and has taught me
everything I will learn, and reads every book, and takes
every hint she can pick up, and keeps me with her all day,
and worries about me all night, till she's nearly mad;
And if any kind person can think of any better way to make me happy
we shall both of us be glad.

BLUE AND RED:
OR, THE DISCONTENTED LOBSTER.

Permit me, Reader, to make my bow,
And allow
Me to humbly commend to your tender mercies
The hero of these simple verses.
By domicile, of the British Nation;
By birth and family, a Crustacean.
One's hero should have a name that rare is;
And his was _Homarus_, but--_Vulgaris!_
A Lobster, who dwelt with several others,--
His sisters and brothers,--
In a secluded but happy home,
Under the salt sea's foam.
It lay
At the outermost point of a rocky bay.
A sandy, tide-pooly, cliff-bound cove,
With a red-roofed fishing village above,
Of irregular cottages, perched up high
Amid pale yellow poppies next to the sky.
Shells and pebbles, and wrack below,
And shrimpers shrimping all in a row;
Tawny sails and tarry boats,
Dark brown nets and old cork floats;
Nasty smells at the nicest spots,
And blue-jerseyed sailors and--lobster-pots.

"It is sweet to be
At home in the deep, deep sea.
It is very pleasant to have the power
To take the air on dry land for an hour;
And when the mid-day midsummer sun
Is toasting the fields as brown as a bun,
And the sands are baking, it's very nice
To feel as cool as a strawberry ice
In one's own particular damp sea-cave,
Dipping one's feelers in each green wave.
It is good, for a very rapacious maw,
When storm-tossed morsels come to the claw;
And 'the better to see with' down below,
To wash one's eyes in the ebb and flow
Of the tides that come and the tides that go."
So sang the Lobsters, thankful for their mercies,
All but the hero of these simple verses.
Now a hero--
If he's worth the grand old name--
Though temperature may change from boiling-point to zero
Should keep his temper all the same:
Courageous and content in his estate,
And proof against the spiteful blows of Fate.
It, therefore, troubles me to have to say,
That with this Lobster it was never so;
Whate'er the weather or the sort of day,
No matter if the tide were high or low,
Whatever happened he was never pleased,
And not himself alone, but all his kindred teased.

"Oh! oh!
What a world of woe
We flounder about in, here below!
Oh dear! oh dear!
It is too, too dull, down here!
I haven't the slightest patience
With any of my relations;
I take no interest whatever
In things they call curious and clever.
And, for love of dear truth I state it,
As for my Home--I hate it!
I'm convinced I was formed for a larger sphere,
And am utterly out of my element here."
Then his brothers and sisters said,
Each solemnly shaking his and her head,
"You put your complaints in most beautiful verse,
And yet we are sure,
That, in spite of all you have to endure,
You might go much farther and fare much worse.
We wish you could live in a higher sphere,
But we think you might live happily here."
"I don't live, I only exist," he said,
"Be pleased to look upon me as dead."
And he swam to his cave, and took to his bed.
He sulked so long that the sisters cried,
"Perhaps he has really and truly died."
But the brothers went to the cave to peep,
For they said, "Perhaps he is only asleep."
They found him, far too busy to talk,
With a very large piece of bad salt pork.
"Dear Brother, what luck you have had to-day!
Can you tell us, pray,
Is there any more pork afloat in the bay?"
But not a word would my hero say,
Except to repeat, with sad persistence,
"This is not life, it's only existence."

One day there came to the fishing village
An individual bent on pillage;
But a robber whom true scientific feeling
May find guilty of picking, but not of stealing.
He picked the yellow poppies on the cliffs;
He picked the feathery seaweeds in the pools;
He picked the odds and ends from nets and skiffs;
He picked the brains of all the country fools.
He dried the poppies for his own herbarium,
And caught the Lobsters for a seaside town aquarium.

"Tank No. 20" is deep,
"Tank No. 20" is cool,
For clever contrivances always keep
The water fresh in the pool;
And a very fine plate-glass window is free to the public view,
Through which you can stare at the passers-by and the passers-by
stare at you.
Said my hero, "This is a great variety
From those dull old rocks, where we'd no society."

For the primal cause of incidents,
One often hunts about,
When it's only a coincidence
That matters so turned out.
And I do not know the reason
Or the reason I would tell--
But it may have been the season--
Why my hero chose this moment for casting off his shell.
He had hitherto been dressed[1]
(And so had all the rest)
In purplish navy blue from top to toe!
But now his coat was new,
It was of every shade of blue
Between azure and the deepest indigo;
And his sisters kept telling him, till they were tired,
There never was any one so much admired.

My hero was happy at last, you will say?
So he was, dear Reader--two nights and a day;
Then, as he and his relatives lay,
Each at the mouth of his mock
Cave in the face of a miniature rock,
They saw, descending the opposite cliff,
By jerks spasmodic of elbows stiff;
Now hurriedly slipping, now seeming calmer,
With the ease and the grace of a hog in armour,
And as solemn as any ancient palmer,
No less than nine
Exceedingly fine
And full-grown lobsters, all in a line.
But the worst of the matter remains to be said.
These nine big lobsters were all of them _red_.[2]
And when they got safe to the floor of the tank,--
For which they had chiefly good luck to thank,--
They settled their cumbersome coats of mail,
And every lobster tucked his tail
Neatly under him as he sat
In a circle of nine for a cosy chat.
They seemed to be sitting hand in hand,
As shoulder to shoulder they sat in the sand,
And waved their antennæ in calm rotation,
Apparently holding a consultation.
But what were the feelings of Master Blue Shell?
Oh, gentle Reader! how shall I tell?

[Footnote 1: The colours of lobsters vary a good deal in various
localities. _Homarus vulgaris_, the common lobster, is spotted, and, on
the upper part, more or less of a bluish black. I once saw a lobster
that had just got a new shell, and was of every lovely shade of blue
and violet.]

[Footnote 2: _Palurinus vulgaris_, the spiny lobster, has no true
claws, but huge hairy antennæ. These lobsters are red _during their
lifetime_! I have seen them (in the Crystal Palace Aquarium) seated
exactly as here described, with blue lobsters watching them from
niches of the rocky sides of the tank, where they looked like
blue-jerseyed smugglers at the mouths of caves.]

From the moment that those Nine he saw,
He never could bear his blue coat more.
"Oh, Brothers in misfortune!" he said,
"Did you ever see any lobsters so grand,
As those who sit down there in the sand?
Why were we born at all, since not one of us all was born red?"
"Dear Brother, indeed, this is quite a whim."
(So his brothers and sisters reasoned with him;
And, being exceedingly cultivated,
The case with remarkable fairness stated.)
"Red is a primary colour, it's true,
But so is Blue;
And we all of us think, dear Brother,
That one is quite as good as the other.
A swaggering soldier's a saucy varlet,
Though he looks uncommonly well in scarlet.
No doubt there's much to be said
For a field of poppies of glowing red;
For fiery rifts in sunset skies,
Roses and blushes and red sunrise;
For a glow on the Alps, and the glow of a forge,
A foxglove bank in a woodland gorge;
Sparks that are struck from red-hot bars,
The sun in a mist, and the red star Mars;
Flowers of countless shades and shapes,
Matadors', judges', and gipsies' capes;
The red-haired king who was killed in the wood,
Robin Redbreast and little Red Riding Hood;
Autumn maple, and winter holly,
Red-letter days of wisdom or folly;
The scarlet ibis, rose cockatoos,
Cardinal's gloves, and Karen's shoes;
Coral and rubies, and huntsmen's pink;
Red, in short, is splendid, we think.
But, then, we don't think there's a pin to choose;
If the Guards are handsome, so are the Blues.
It's a narrow choice between Sappers and Gunners.
You sow blue beans, and rear scarlet runners.
Then think of the blue of a mid-day sky,
Of the sea, and the hills, and a Scotchman's eye;
Of peacock's feathers, forget-me-nots,
Worcester china and "jap" tea-pots.
The blue that the western sky wears casually,
Sapphire, turquoise, and lapis-lazuli.
What can look smarter
Than the broad blue ribbon of Knights of the Garter?
And, if the subject is not too shocking,
An intellectual lady's stocking.
And who that loves hues
Could fail to mention
The wonderful blues
Of the mountain gentian?"
But to all that his brothers and sisters said,
He made no reply but--"I wish I were dead!
I'm all over blue, and I want to be red."
And he moped and pined, and took to his bed.
"That little one looks uncommonly sickly,
Put him back in the sea, and put him back quickly."
The voice that spoke was the voice of Fate,
And the lobster was soon in his former state;
Where, as of old, he muttered and mumbled,
And growled and grumbled:
"Oh dear! what shall I do?
I want to be red, and I'm all over blue."

I don't think I ever met with a book
The evil genius of which was a cook;
But it thus befell,
In the tale I have the honour to tell;
For as he was fretting and fuming about,
A fisherman fished my hero out;
And in process of time, he heard a voice,
Which made him rejoice.
The voice was the cook's, and what she said
Was, "He'll soon come out a beautiful red."

He was put in the pot,
The water was very hot;
The less we say about this the better,
It was all fulfilled to the very letter.
He did become a beautiful red,
But then--which he did not expect--he was dead!

Some gentle readers cannot well endure
To see the ill end of a bad beginning;
And hope against hope for a nicer cure
For naughty heroes than to leave off sinning.
And yet persisting in behaving badly,
Do what one will, does commonly end sadly.

But things in general are so much mixed,
That every case must stand upon its merits;
And folks' opinions are so little fixed,
And no one knows the least what he inherits--
I should be glad to shed some parting glory
Upon the hero of this simple story.

It seems to me a mean end to a ballad,
But the truth is, he was made into salad;
It's not how one's hero should end his days,
In a mayonnaise,
But I'm told that he looked exceedingly nice,
With cream-coloured sauce, and pale-green lettuce and ice.

I confess that if he'd been my relation,
This would not afford me any consolation;
For I feel (though one likes to speak well of the dead)
That it must be said,
He need not have died so early lamented,
If he'd been content to live contented.

P.S.--His claws were raised to very high stations;
They keep the earwigs from our carnations.

THE YELLOW FLY.

A TALE WITH A STING IN IT.

Ah!
There you are!
I was certain I heard a strange voice from afar.
Mamma calls me a pup, but I'm wiser than she;
One ear cocked and I hear, half an eye and I see;
Wide-awake though I doze, not a thing escapes me.

Yes!
Let me guess:
It's the stable-boy's hiss as he wisps down Black Bess.
It sounds like a kettle beginning to sing,
Or a bee on a pane, or a moth on the wing,
Or my master's peg-top, just let loose from the string.

Well!
Now I smell,
I don't know who you are, and I'm puzzled to tell.
You look like a fly dressed in very gay clothes,
But I blush to have troubled my mid-day repose
For a creature not worth half a twitch of my nose.

How now?
Bow, wow, wow!
The insect imagines we're playing, I vow!
If I pat you, I promise you'll find it too hard.
Be off! when a watch-dog like me is on guard,
Big or little, no stranger's allowed in the yard.

Eh?
"Come away!"
My dear little master, is that what you say?
I am greatly obliged for your kindness and cares,
But I really can manage my own small affairs,
And banish intruders who give themselves airs.

Snap!
Yap! yap! yap!
You defy me?--you pigmy, you insolent scrap!
What!--this to my teeth, that have worried a score
Of the biggest rats bred in the granary floor!
Come on, and be swallowed! I spare you no more!

Help!
Yelp! yelp! yelp!
Little master, pray save an unfortunate whelp,
Who began the attack, but is now in retreat,
Having shown all his teeth, just escapes on his feet,
And is trusting to you to make safety complete.

Oh!
Let me go!
My poor eye! my poor ear! my poor tail! my poor toe!
Pray excuse my remarks, for I meant no such thing.
Don't trouble to come--oh, the brute's on the wing!
I'd no notion, I'm sure, there were flies that could sting.

Dear me!
I can't see.
My nose burns, my limbs shake, I'm as ill as can be.
I was never in such an undignified plight.
Mamma told me, and now I suppose she was right;
One should know what one's after before one shows fight.

CANADA HOME.

Some Homes are where flowers for ever blow,
The sun shining hotly the whole year round;
But our Home glistens with six months of snow,
Where frost without wind heightens every sound.
And Home is Home wherever it is,
When we're all together and nothing amiss.

Yet Willy is old enough to recall
A Home forgotten by Eily and me;
He says that we left it five years since last Fall,
And came sailing, sailing, right over the sea.
But Home is Home wherever it is,
When we're all together and nothing amiss.

Our other Home was for ever green,
A green, green isle in a blue, blue sea,
With sweet flowers such as we never have seen;
And Willy tells all this to Eily and me.
But Home is Home wherever it is,
When we're all together and nothing amiss.

He says, "What fine fun when we all go back!"
But Canada Home is very good fun
When Pat's little sled flies along the smooth track,
Or spills in the snowdrift that shines in the sun.
For Home is Home wherever it is,
When we're all together and nothing amiss.

Some day I should dearly love, it is true,
To sail to the old Home over the sea;
But only if Father and Mother went too,
With Willy and Patrick and Eily and me.
For Home is Home wherever it is,
When we're all together and nothing amiss.

THE POET AND THE BROOK.

A TALE OF TRANSFORMATIONS.

A little Brook, that babbled under grass,
Once saw a Poet pass--
A Poet with long hair and saddened eyes,
Who went his weary way with woeful sighs.
And on another time,
This Brook did hear that Poet read his rueful rhyme.
Now in the poem that he read,
This Poet said--
"Oh! little Brook that babblest under grass!
(_Ah me! Alack! Ah, well-a-day! Alas!_)
Say, are you what you seem?
Or is your life, like other lives, a dream?
What time your babbling mocks my mortal moods,
Fair Naïad of the stream!
And are you, in good sooth,
Could purblind poesy perceive the truth,
A water-sprite,
Who sometimes, for man's dangerous delight,
Puts on a human form and face,
To wear them with a superhuman grace?

"When this poor Poet turns his bending back,
(_Ah me! Ah, well-a-day! Alas! Alack!_)
Say, shall you rise from out your grassy bed,
With wreathed forget-me-nots about your head,
And sing and play,
And wile some wandering wight out of his way,
To lead him with your witcheries astray?
(_Ah me! Alas! Alack! Ah, well-a-day!_)
Would it be safe for me
That fateful form to see?"
(_Alas! Alack! Ah, well-a-day! Ah me!_)

So far the Poet read his pleasing strain,
Then it began to rain:
He closed his book.
"Farewell, fair Nymph!" he cried, as with a lingering look
His homeward way he took;
And nevermore that Poet saw that Brook.

The Brook passed several days in anxious expectation
Of transformation
Into a lovely nymph bedecked with flowers;
And longed impatiently to prove those powers--
Those dangerous powers--of witchery and wile,
That should all mortal men mysteriously beguile;
For life as running water lost its charm
Before the exciting hope of doing so much harm.
And yet the hope seemed vain;
Despite the Poet's strain,
Though the days came and went, and went and came,
The seasons changed, the Brook remained the same.

The Brook was almost tired
Of vainly hoping to become a Naïad;
When on a certain Summer's day,
Dame Nature came that way,
Busy as usual,
With great and small;
Who, at the water-side
Dipping her clever fingers in the tide,
Out of the mud drew creeping things,
And, smiling on them, gave them radiant wings.
Now when the poor Brook murmured, "Mother dear!"
Dame Nature bent to hear,
And the sad stream poured all its woes into her sympathetic ear,
Crying,--"Oh, bounteous Mother!
Do not do more for one child than another;
If of a dirty grub or two
(Dressing them up in royal blue)
You make so many shining Demoiselles,[3]
Change me as well;
Uplift me also from this narrow place,
Where life runs on at such a petty pace;
Give me a human form, dear Dame, and then
See how I'll flit, and flash, and fascinate the race of men!"

[Footnote 3: The "Demoiselle" Dragon-fly, a well-known slender
variety (_Libellula_), with body of brilliant blue.]

Then Mother Nature, who is wondrous wise,
Did that deluded little Brook advise
To be contented with its own fair face,
And with a good and cheerful grace,
Run, as of yore, on its appointed race,
Safe both from giving and receiving harms;
Outliving human lives, outlasting human charms.
But good advice, however kind,
Is thrown away upon a made-up mind,
And this was all that babbling Brook would say--
"Give me a human face and form, if only for a day!"

Then quoth Dame Nature:--"Oh, my foolish child!
Ere I fulfil a wish so wild,
Since I am kind and you are ignorant,
This much I grant:
You shall arise from out your grassy bed,
And gathered to the waters overhead
Shall thus and then
Look down and see the world, and all the ways of men!"
Scarce had the Dame
Departed to the place from whence she came,
When in that very hour,
The sun burst forth with most amazing power.
Dame Nature bade him blaze, and he obeyed;
He drove the fainting flocks into the shade,
He ripened all the flowers into seed,
He dried the river, and he parched the mead;
Then on the Brook he turned his burning eye,
Which rose and left its narrow channel dry;
And, climbing up by sunbeams to the sky,
Became a snow-white cloud, which softly floated by.

It was a glorious Autumn day,
And all the world with red and gold was gay;
When, as this cloud athwart the heavens did pass,
Lying below, it saw a Poet on the grass,
The very Poet who had such a stir made,
To prove the Brook was a fresh-water mermaid.
And now,
Holding his book above his corrugated brow--
He read aloud,
And thus apostrophized the passing cloud:
"Oh, snowy-breasted Fair!
Mysterious messenger of upper air!
Can you be of those female forms so dread,[4]
Who bear the souls of the heroic dead
To where undying laurels crown the warrior's head?
Or, as you smile and hover,
Are you not rather some fond goddess of the skies who waits a mortal
lover?
And who, ah! who is he?
--And what, oh, what!--your message to poor me?"--
So far the Poet. Then he stopped:
His book had dropped.
But ere the delighted cloud could make reply,
Dame Nature hurried by,
And it put forth a wild beseeching cry--
"Give me a human face and form!"
Dame Nature frowned, and all the heavens grew black with storm.

[Footnote 4: The Walkyrie in Teutonic mythology, whose office it is to
bear the souls of fallen heroes from the field of battle.]

But very soon,
Upon a frosty winter's noon,
The little cloud returned below,
Falling in flakes of snow;
Falling most softly on the floor most hard
Of an old manor-house court-yard.
And as it hastened to the earth again,
The children sang behind the window-pane:
"Old woman, up yonder, plucking your geese,
Quickly pluck them, and quickly cease;
Throw down the feathers, and when you have done,
We shall have fun--we shall have fun."
The snow had fallen, when with song and shout
The girls and boys came out;
Six sturdy little men and maids,
Carrying heather-brooms, and wooden spades,
Who swept and shovelled up the fallen snow,
Which whimpered,--"Oh! oh! oh!
Oh, Mother, most severe!
Pity me lying here,
I'm shaken all to pieces with that storm,
Raise me and clothe me in a human form."

They swept up much, they shovelled up more,
There never was such a snow-man before!
They built him bravely with might and main,
There never will be such a snow-man again!
His legs were big, his body was bigger,
They made him a most imposing figure;
His eyes were large and as black as coal,
For a cinder was placed in each round hole.
And the sight of his teeth would have made yours ache,
Being simply the teeth of an ancient rake.
They smoothed his forehead, they patted his back,
There wasn't a single unsightly crack;
And when they had given the final pat,
They crowned his head with the scare-crow's hat.

And so
The Brook--the Cloud--the Snow,
Got its own way after so many days,
And did put on a human form and face.
But whether
The situation pleased it altogether;
If it is nice
To be a man of snow and ice;
Whether it feels
Painful, when one congeals;
How this man felt
When he began to melt;
Whether he wore his human form and face
With any extraordinary grace;
If many mortals fell
As victims to the spell;
Or if,
As he stood, stark and stiff,
With a bare broomstick in his arms,
And not a trace of transcendental charms,
That man of snow
Grew wise enough to know
That the Brook's hopes were but a Poet's dream,
And well content to be again a stream,
On the first sunny day,
Flowed quietly away;
Or what the end was--You must ask the Poet,
I don't know it.

A SOLDIER'S CHILDREN.

Our home used to be in a hut in the dear old Camp, with lots of bands
and trumpets and bugles and Dead Marches, and three times
a day there was a gun,
But now we live in View Villa at the top of the village, and it isn't
nearly such fun.
We never see any soldiers, except one day we saw a Volunteer, and we
ran after him as hard as ever we could go, for we thought he
looked rather brave;
But there's only been one funeral since we came, an ugly black thing
with no Dead March or Union Jack, and not even a firing party
at the grave.
There is a man in uniform to bring the letters, but he's nothing like
our old Orderly, Brown;
I told him, through the hedge, "Your facings are dirty, and you'd
have to wear your belt if my father was at home," and oh,
how he did frown!
But things can't be expected to go right when Old Father's away, and
he's gone to the war;
Which is why we play at soldiers and fighting battles more than ever
we did before.
And I try to keep things together: every morning I have a parade of
myself and Dick,
To see that we are clean, and to drill him and do sword-exercise with
poor Grandpapa's stick.
Grandpapa's dead, so he doesn't want it now, and Dick's too young for
a real tin sword like mine:
He's so young he won't make up his mind whether he'll go into the
Artillery or the Line.
I want him to be a gunner, for his frock's dark blue, and Captain
Powder gave us a wooden gun with an elastic that shoots
quite a big ball.
It's nonsense Dick's saying he'd like to be a Chaplain, for that's
not being a soldier at all.
Besides, he always wants to be Drum-Major when we've funerals, to
stamp the stick and sing RUM--TUM--TUM--
To the Dead March in _Saul_ (that's the name of the tune, and you play
it on a drum).

Mary is so good, she might easily be a Chaplain, but of course she
can't be anything that wants man;
She likes nursing her doll, but when we have battles she moves the
lead soldiers about, and does what she can.
She never grumbles about not being able to grow up into a General,
though I should think it must be a great bore.
I asked her what she would do if she were grown up into a woman,
and belonged to some one who was wounded in the war,--
She said she'd go out and nurse him: so I said, "But supposing you
couldn't get him better, and he died; how would you behave?"
And she said if she couldn't get a ship to bring him home in, she
should stay out there and grow a garden, and make wreaths
for his grave.
Nurse says we oughtn't to have battles, now Father's gone to battle,
but that's just the reason why!
And I don't believe one bit what she said about its making Mother cry.
Only she does like us to put away our toys on Sunday, so we can't
have the soldiers or the gun;
But yesterday Dick said, "I was thinking in church, and I've thought
of a game about soldiers, and it's a perfectly Sunday one;
It's a Church Parade: you'll have to be a lot of officers and men,
Mary'll do for a few wives and families, and I'll be Chaplain
to the Forces and pray for everyone at the war."
So he put his nightgown over his knickerbocker suit, and knelt on the
Ashantee stool, and Mary and I knelt on the floor.
I think it was rather nice of Dick, for he said what put it into
his head
Was thinking they mightn't have much time for their prayers on active
service, and we ought to say them instead.
I should have liked to parade the lead soldiers, but I didn't, for
Mother says, "What's the good of being a soldier's son if
you can't do as you're bid?"
But we thought there'd be no harm in letting the box be there if we
kept on the lid.
Dick couldn't pray out of the Prayer-book, because he's backward with
being delicate, and he can't read;
So he had to make a prayer out of his own head, and I think he did it
very well indeed.
He began, "GOD save the Queen, and the Army and the Navy, and the
Irregular Forces and the Volunteers!
Especially Old Father (he went out with the first draft, and he's a
Captain in the Royal Engineers").
But I said, "I don't think 'GOD save the Queen' is a proper prayer,
I think it's only a sort of three cheers."
So he said, "GOD bless the Generals, and the Colonels, and the Majors,
and the Captains, and the Lieutenants, and the
Sub-lieutenants, and the Quartermasters, and the
non-commissioned officers, and the men;
And the bands, and the colours, and the guns, and the horses and the
wagons, and the gun-carriage they use for the funerals; and
please I should like them all to come home safe again.
(Don't, Mary! I haven't finished; it isn't time for you to say Amen.)
I haven't prayed for the Chaplains, or the Doctors who help the poor
men left groaning on the ground when the victories are won;
And I want to pray particularly for the very poor ones who die of fever
and miss all the fighting and fun.
GOD bless the good soldiers, like Old Father, and Captain Powder,
and the men with good-conduct medals; and please let the
naughty ones all be forgiven;
And if the black men kill our men, send down white angels to take
their poor dear souls to Heaven!
_Now_ you may both say Amen, and I shall give out hymn four hundred
and thirty-seven."
There are eight verses and eight Alleluias, and we can't sing very
well, but we did our best,
Only Mary would cry in the verse about "Soon, soon to faithful
warriors comes their rest!"
But we're both very glad Dick has found out a Sunday game about
fighting, for we never had one before;
And now we can play at soldiers every day till Old Father comes
home from the war.

"TOUCH HIM IF YOU DARE."

A TALE OF THE HEDGE.

HEDGE-PLANTS.

"Beware!
We advise you to take care.
He lodges with us, so we know him well,
And can tell
You all about him,
And we strongly advise you not to flout him."

DANDELION.

"At my time of life," said the Dandelion,
"I keep an eye on
The slightest sign of disturbance and riot,
For my one object is to keep quiet
The reason I take such very great care,"
The old Dandy went on, "is because of my hair.
It was very thick once, and as yellow as gold;
But now I am old,
It is snowy-white,
And comes off with the slightest fright.
As to using a brush--
My good dog! I beseech you, don't rush,
Go quietly by me, if you please
You're as bad as a breeze.
I hope you'll attend to what we've said;
And--whatever you do--don't touch my head,
In this equinoctial, blustering weather
You might knock it off with a feather."

THISTLE.

Said the Thistle, "I can tickle,
But not as a Hedgehog can prickle;
Even my tough old friend the Moke
Would find our lodger no joke."

DOG-ROSE.

"I have thorns," sighed the Rose,
"But they don't protect me like those;
He can pull his thorns right over his nose."

NETTLE.

"My sting," said the Nettle,
"Is nothing to his when he's put on his mettle.
No nose can endure it,
No dock-leaves will cure it."

DOG.

"Bow-wow!" said the Dog:
"All this fuss about a Hedgehog?
Though I never saw one before--
There's my paw!
Good-morning, Sir! Do you never stir?
You look like an overgrown burr.
Good-day, I-say:
Will you have a game of play?
With your humped-up back and your spines on end,
You remind me so of an intimate friend,
The Persian Puss
Who lives with us.
How well I know her tricks!
The dear creature!
Just when you're sure you can reach her,
In the twinkling of a couple of sticks
She saves herself by her heels,
And looks down at you out of the apple-tree, with eyes like catherine
wheels.
The odd part of it is,
I could swear that I could not possibly miss
Her silky, cumbersome, traily tail,
And that's just where I always fail.
But you seem to have nothing, Sir, of the sort;
And I should be mortified if you thought
That I'm stupid at sport;
I assure you I don't often meet my match,
Where I chase I commonly catch.
I've caught cats,
And rats,
And (between ourselves) I once caught a sheep,
And I think I could catch a weasel asleep."

HEDGE-PLANTS.

From the whole of the hedge there rose a shout,
"Oh! you'll catch it, no doubt!
But remember we gave you warning fair,
Touch him if you dare!"

DOG.

"If I dare?" said the Dog--"Take that!"
As he gave the Hedgehog a pat.
But oh, how he pitied his own poor paw;
And shook it and licked it, it was so sore.

DANDELION.

"It's much too funny by half,"
Said the Dandelion; "it makes me ill,
For I cannot keep still,
And my hair comes out if I laugh."

The Hedgehog he spoke never a word,
And he never stirred;
His peeping eyes, his inquisitive nose,
And his tender toes,
Were all wrapped up in his prickly clothes.
A provoking enemy you may suppose!
And a dangerous one to flout--
Like a well-stocked pin-cushion inside out.

The Dog was valiant, the Dog was vain,
He flew at the prickly ball again,
Snapping with all his might and main,
But, oh! the pain!
He sat down on his stumpy tail and howled,
Then he laid his jaws on his paws and growled.

DANDELION.

With laughter the Dandelion shook--
"It passes a printed book;
It's as good as a play, I declare,
But it's cost me half my back hair!"
The Dog he made another essay,
It really and truly was very plucky--
But "third times," you know, are not always lucky--
And this time he ran away!

HEDGE-PLANTS.

Then the Hedge-plants every one
Rustled together, "What fun! what fun!
The battle is done,
The victory won.
Dear Hedge-pig, pray come out of the Sun."

The Hedge-pig put forth his snout,
He sniffed hither and thither and peeped about;
Then he tucked up his prickly clothes,
And trotted away on his tender toes
To where the hedge-bottom is cool and deep,
Had a slug for supper, and went to sleep.
His leafy bed-clothes cuddled his chin,
And all the Hedge-plants tucked him in.

But the hairs and the tears that we shed
Never can be recalled;
And when _he_ too went off, in hysterics, to bed,
DANDELION was bald.

MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY REVIEW.

BROTHER BILL.

To have a good birthday for a grown-up person is very difficult indeed;
We don't give it up, for Mother says the harder things are, the harder
you must try till you succeed.
Still, _our_ birthdays are different; we want so many things, and
choosing your own pudding, and even half-holidays are treats;
But what can you do for people who always order the dinner, and never
have lessons, and don't even like sweets?
I know Mother does not. Baby put a big red comfit in her mouth, and I
saw her take it out again on the sly;
I don't believe she even enjoys going a-gypseying, for she gets
neuralgia if she stands about where it isn't dry.
And how can you boil the kettle if you're not near the brook? But it's
the last time she shall go there,
I told her so; I said, "What's the good of having five sons, except to
mount guard over you, you Queen of all Mothers that
ever were?"
But she's not easy to manage, and she shams sometimes, and shamming is
a thing I can't bear.
She shammed about the red comfit, when she didn't think Baby could
see her;
And (because they're the only things we can think of for birthday
presents for her) she shams wearing out a needle-book and a
pin-cushion every year.
The only things we can think of for Father are paper-cutters; but
there's no sham about _his_ wearing _them_ out;
He would always lose them, long before his next birthday, if Mother
did not keep finding them lying about.
Last year's paper-cutter was as big as a sword (not as big as Father's
sword, but as big as a wooden one, like ours),
And he left it behind in a railway-carriage, when he'd had it just
thirty-six hours;
So we knew he was ready for another. It was Mother's birthday that
bothered us so;