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Title: Mother Goose in Prose
Author: Baum, L. Frank (Lyman Frank)
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Mother Goose in Prose" ***
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MOTHER GOOSE IN PROSE
[Illustration: "There was a little man and he had a little gun"]
[Illustration]
MOTHER GOOSE IN PROSE
by
L. FRANK BAUM
Illustrated by Maxfield Parrish
New York
MCMI
Contents
Introduction 9
Sing a Song o' Sixpence 19
The Story of Little Boy Blue 31
The Cat and the Fiddle 45
The Black Sheep 55
Old King Cole 65
Mistress Mary 75
The Wond'rous Wise Man 89
What Jack Horner Did 99
The Man in the Moon 109
The Jolly Miller 119
The Little Man and His Little Gun 131
Hickory, Dickory, Dock 141
Little Bo-Peep 151
The Story of Tommy Tucker 163
Pussy-cat Mew 175
How the Beggars Came to Town 183
Tom, the Piper's Son 199
Humpty Dumpty 207
The Woman Who Lived in a Shoe 221
Little Miss Muffet 233
Three Wise Men of Gotham 245
Little Bun Rabbit 257
Illustrations
"There was a little man and he had a little gun" _Frontispiece_
Little Boy Blue 36
The Black Sheep 58
Old King Cole 68
The Wond'rous Wise Man 92
Jack Horner 102
The Man in the Moon 112
Little Bo-Peep 156
Tommy Tucker 166
Tom, the Piper's Son 200
Humpty Dumpty 212
Three Wise Men of Gotham 248
Introduction.
NONE of us, whether children or adults, needs an introduction to Mother
Goose. Those things which are earliest impressed upon our minds cling
to them the most tenaciously. The snatches sung in the nursery are
never forgotten, nor are they ever recalled without bringing back with
them myriads of slumbering feelings and half-forgotten images.
We hear the sweet, low voice of the mother, singing soft lullabies
to her darling, and see the kindly, wrinkled face of the grandmother
as she croons the old ditties to quiet our restless spirits. One
generation is linked to another by the everlasting spirit of song; the
ballads of the nursery follow us from childhood to old age, and they
are readily brought from memory's recesses at any time to amuse our
children or our grandchildren.
The collection of jingles we know and love as the "Melodies of Mother
Goose" are evidently drawn from a variety of sources. While they are,
taken altogether, a happy union of rhyme, wit, pathos, satire and
sentiment, the research after the author of each individual verse
would indeed be hopeless. It would be folly to suppose them all the
composition of uneducated old nurses, for many of them contain much
reflection, wit and melody. It is said that Shelley wrote "Pussy-Cat
Mew," and Dean Swift "Little Bo-Peep," and these assertions are as
difficult to disprove as to prove. Some of the older verses, however,
are doubtless offshoots from ancient Folk Lore songs, and have
descended to us through many centuries.
The connection of Mother Goose with the rhymes which bear her name is
difficult to determine, and, in fact, three countries claim her for
their own: France, England and America.
About the year 1650 there appeared in circulation in London a small
book, named "Rhymes of the Nursery; or Lulla-Byes for Children," which
contained many of the identical pieces that have been handed down to
us; but the name of Mother Goose was evidently not then known. In this
edition were the rhymes of "Little Jack Horner," "Old King Cole,"
"Mistress Mary," "Sing a Song o' Sixpence," and "Little Boy Blue."
In 1697 Charles Perrault published in France a book of children's tales
entitled "Contes de ma Mére Oye," and this is really the first time we
find authentic record of the use of the name of Mother Goose, although
Perrault's tales differ materially from those we now know under this
title. They comprised "The Sleeping Beauty," "The Fairy," "Little Red
Riding-Hood," "Blue Beard," "Puss in Boots," "Riquet with the Tuft,"
"Cinderella," and "Little Thumb;" eight stories in all. On the cover
of the book was depicted an old lady holding in her hand a distaff and
surrounded by a group of children listening eagerly. Mr. Andrew Lang
has edited a beautiful English edition of this work (Oxford, 1888).
America bases her claim to Mother Goose upon the following statement,
made by the late John Fleet Eliot, a descendant of Thomas Fleet, the
printer:
At the beginning of the eighteenth century there lived in Boston a
lady named Eliza Goose (written also Vergoose and Vertigoose) who
belonged to a wealthy family. Her eldest daughter, Elizabeth Goose
(or Vertigoose), was married by Rev. Cotton Mather in 1715 to an
enterprising and industrious printer named Thomas Fleet, and in
due time gave birth to a son. Like most mothers-in-law in our day,
the importance of Mrs. Goose increased with the appearance of her
grandchild, and poor Mr. Fleet, half distracted with her endless
nursery ditties, finding all other means fail, tried what ridicule
could effect, and actually printed a book under the title "Songs of the
Nursery; or, Mother Goose's Melodies for Children." On the title page
was the picture of a goose with a very long neck and a mouth wide open,
and below this, "Printed by T. Fleet, at his Printing House in Pudding
Lane, 1719. Price, two coppers."
Mr. Wm. A. Wheeler, the editor of Hurd & Houghton's elaborate edition
of Mother Goose, (1870), reiterated this assertion, and a writer in
the Boston Transcript of June 17, 1864, says: "Fleet's book was partly
a reprint of an English collection of songs, (Barclay's), and the new
title was doubtless a compliment by the printer to his mother-in-law
Goose for her contributions. She was the mother of sixteen children and
a typical 'Old Woman who lived in a Shoe.'"
We may take it to be true that Fleet's wife was of the Vergoose family,
and that the name was often contracted to Goose. But the rest of the
story is unsupported by any evidence whatever. In fact, all that Mr.
Eliot knew of it was the statement of the late Edward A. Crowninshield,
of Boston, that he had seen Fleet's edition in the library of the
American Antiquarian Society. Repeated researches at Worcester having
failed to bring to light this supposed copy, and no record of it
appearing on any catalogue there, we may dismiss the entire story with
the supposition that Mr. Eliot misunderstood the remarks made to him.
Indeed, as Mr. William H. Whitmore points out in his clever monograph
upon Mother Goose (Albany, 1889), it is very doubtful whether in 1719
a Boston printer would have been allowed to publish such "trivial"
rhymes. "Boston children at that date," says Mr. Whitmore, "were fed
upon Gospel food, and it seems extremely improbable that an edition
could have been sold."
Singularly enough, England's claim to the venerable old lady is of
about the same date as Boston's. There lived in a town in Sussex, about
the year 1704, an old woman named Martha Gooch. She was a capital
nurse, and in great demand to care for newly-born babies; therefore,
through long years of service as nurse, she came to be called Mother
Gooch. This good woman had one peculiarity: she was accustomed to croon
queer rhymes and jingles over the cradles of her charges, and these
rhymes "seemed so senseless and silly to the people who overheard them"
that they began to call her "Mother Goose," in derision, the term being
derived from Queen Goosefoot, the mother of Charlemagne. The old nurse
paid no attention to her critics, but continued to sing her rhymes as
before; for, however much grown people might laugh at her, the children
seemed to enjoy them very much, and not one of them was too peevish
to be quieted and soothed by her verses. At one time Mistress Gooch
was nursing a child of Mr. Ronald Barclay, a physician residing in the
town, and he noticed the rhymes she sang and became interested in them.
In time he wrote them all down and made a book of them, which it is
said was printed by John Worthington & Son in the Strand, London, in
1712, under the name of "Ye Melodious Rhymes of Mother Goose." But even
this story of Martha Gooch is based upon very meager and unsatisfactory
evidence.
The earliest English edition of Mother Goose's Melodies that is
absolutely authentic was issued by John Newbury of London about the
year 1760, and the first authentic American edition was a reprint of
Newbury's made by Isaiah Thomas of Worcester, Mass., in 1785.
None of the earlier editions, however, contained all the rhymes so well
known at the present day, since every decade has added its quota to
the mass of jingles attributed to "Mother Goose." Some of the earlier
verses have become entirely obsolete, and it is well they have, for
many were crude and silly and others were coarse. It is simply a result
of the greater refinement of modern civilization that they have been
relegated to oblivion, while the real gems of the collection will
doubtless live and grow in popular favor for many ages.
While I have taken some pains to record the various claims to the
origin of Mother Goose, it does not matter in the least whether she was
in reality a myth, or a living Eliza Goose, Martha Gooch or the "Mére
Oye" of Perrault. The songs that cluster around her name are what we
love, and each individual verse appeals more to the childish mind than
does Mother Goose herself.
Many of these nursery rhymes are complete tales in themselves, telling
their story tersely but completely; there are others which are but
bare suggestions, leaving the imagination to weave in the details of
the story. Perhaps therein may lie part of their charm, but however
that may be I have thought the children might like the stories told
at greater length, that they may dwell the longer upon their favorite
heroes and heroines.
For that reason I have written this book.
In making the stories I have followed mainly the suggestions of the
rhymes, and my hope is that the little ones will like them, and not
find that they interfere with the fanciful creations of their own
imaginations.
L. FRANK BAUM.
Chicago, Illinois, July, 1899.
[Illustration: Sing a Song o' Sixpence]
Sing a Song o' Sixpence
Sing a song o' sixpence, a handful of rye,
Four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie;
When the pie was opened the birds began to sing,
Wasn't that a dainty dish to set before the King?
IF you have never heard the legend of Gilligren and the King's pie you
will scarcely understand the above verse; so I will tell you the whole
story, and then you will be able to better appreciate the rhyme.
Gilligren was an orphan, and lived with an uncle and aunt who were
very unkind to him. They cuffed him and scolded him upon the slightest
provocation, and made his life very miserable indeed. Gilligren never
rebelled against this treatment, but bore their cruelty silently and
with patience, although often he longed to leave them and seek a home
amongst kinder people.
It so happened that when Gilligren was twelve years old the King died,
and his son was to be proclaimed King in his place, and crowned with
great ceremony. People were flocking to London from all parts of the
country, to witness the festivities, and the boy longed to go with
them.
One evening he said to his uncle,
"If I had sixpence I could make my fortune."
"Pooh! nonsense!" exclaimed his uncle, "a sixpence is a small thing.
How then could you make a fortune from it?"
"That I cannot tell you," replied Gilligren, "but if you will give me
the sixpence I will go to London, and not return until I am a rich man."
"The boy is a fool!" said his uncle, with anger; but the aunt spoke up
quickly.
"Give him the money and let him go," she said, "and then we shall be
well rid of him and no longer be obliged to feed and clothe him at our
expense."
"Well," said her husband, after a moment's thought, "here is the money;
but remember, this is all I shall ever give you, and when it is gone
you must not come to me for more."
"Never fear," replied Gilligren, joyfully, as he put the sixpence in
his pocket, "I shall not trouble you again."
The next morning he cut a short stick to assist him in walking, and
after bidding good-bye to his uncle and aunt he started upon his
journey to London.
"The money will not last him two days," said the man, as he watched
Gilligren go down the turnpike road, "and when it is gone he will
starve to death."
"Or he may fall in with people who will treat him worse than we did,"
rejoined the woman, "and then he'll wish he had never left us."
But Gilligren, nothing dismayed by thoughts of the future, trudged
bravely along the London road. The world was before him, and the bright
sunshine glorified the dusty road and lightened the tips of the dark
green hedges that bordered his path. At the end of his pilgrimage was
the great city, and he never doubted he would find therein proper work
and proper pay, and much better treatment than he was accustomed to
receive.
So, on he went, whistling merrily to while away the time, watching the
sparrows skim over the fields, and enjoying to the full the unusual
sights that met his eyes. At noon he overtook a carter, who divided
with the boy his luncheon of bread and cheese, and for supper a
farmer's wife gave him a bowl of milk. When it grew dark he crawled
under a hedge and slept soundly until dawn.
The next day he kept steadily upon his way, and toward evening met a
farmer with a wagon loaded with sacks of grain.
"Where are you going, my lad?" asked the man.
"To London," replied Gilligren, "to see the King crowned."
"Have you any money?" enquired the farmer.
"Oh yes," answered Gilligren, "I have a sixpence."
"If you will give me the sixpence," said the man, "I will give you a
sack of rye for it."
"What could I do with a sack of rye?" asked Gilligren, wonderingly.
"Take it to the mill, and get it ground into flour. With the flour you
could have bread baked, and that you can sell."
"That is a good idea," replied Gilligren, "so here is my sixpence, and
now give me the sack of rye."
The farmer put the sixpence carefully into his pocket, and then reached
under the seat of the wagon and drew out a sack, which he cast on the
ground at the boy's feet.
"There is your sack of rye," he said, with a laugh.
"But the sack is empty!" remonstrated Gilligren.
"Oh, no; there is some rye in it."
"But only a handful!" said Gilligren, when he had opened the mouth of
the sack and gazed within it.
"It is a sack of rye, nevertheless," replied the wicked farmer, "and
I did not say how much rye there would be in the sack I would give
you. Let this be a lesson to you never again to buy grain without
looking into the sack!" and with that he whipped up his horses and left
Gilligren standing in the road with the sack at his feet and nearly
ready to cry at his loss.
"My sixpence is gone," he said to himself, "and I have received nothing
in exchange but a handful of rye! How can I make my fortune with that?"
He did not despair, however, but picked up the sack and continued his
way along the dusty road. Soon it became too dark to travel farther,
and Gilligren stepped aside into a meadow, where, lying down upon the
sweet grass, he rolled the sack into a pillow for his head and prepared
to sleep.
The rye that was within the sack, however, hurt his head, and he sat up
and opened the sack.
"Why should I keep a handful of rye?" he thought, "It will be of no
value to me at all."
So he threw out the rye upon the ground, and rolling up the sack again
for a pillow, was soon sound asleep.
When he awoke the sun was shining brightly over his head and the
twitter and chirping of many birds fell upon his ears. Gilligren opened
his eyes and saw a large flock of blackbirds feeding upon the rye he
had scattered upon the ground. So intent were they upon their feast
they never noticed Gilligren at all.
He carefully unfolded the sack, and spreading wide its opening threw it
quickly over the flock of blackbirds. Some escaped and flew away, but a
great many were caught, and Gilligren put his eye to the sack and found
he had captured four and twenty. He tied the mouth of the sack with a
piece of twine that was in his pocket, and then threw the sack over his
shoulder and began again his journey to London.
"I have made a good exchange, after all," he thought, "for surely four
and twenty blackbirds are worth more than a handful of rye, and perhaps
even more than a sixpence, if I can find anyone who wishes to buy
them."
He now walked rapidly forward, and about noon entered the great city of
London.
Gilligren wandered about the streets until he came to the King's
palace, where there was a great concourse of people and many guards to
keep intruders from the gates.
Seeing he could not enter from the front, the boy walked around to the
rear of the palace and found himself near the royal kitchen, where the
cooks and other servants were rushing around to hasten the preparation
of the King's dinner.
Gilligren sat down upon a stone where he could watch them, and laying
the sack at his feet was soon deeply interested in the strange sight.
Presently a servant in the King's livery saw him and came to his side.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, roughly.
"I am waiting to see the King," replied Gilligren.
"The King! The King never comes here," said the servant; "and neither
do we allow idlers about the royal kitchen. So depart at once, or I
shall be forced to call a guard to arrest you."
Gilligren arose obediently and slung his sack over his shoulder. As he
did so the birds that were within began to flutter.
"What have you in the sack?" asked the servant.
"Blackbirds," replied Gilligren.
"Blackbirds!" echoed the servant, in surprise, "well, that is very
fortunate indeed. Come with me at once!" He seized the boy by the arm
and drew him hastily along until they entered the great kitchen of the
palace.
"Here, Mister Baker!" the man called, excitedly, "I have found your
blackbirds!"
A big, fat man who was standing in the middle of the kitchen with
folded arms and a look of despair upon his round, greasy face, at once
came toward them and asked eagerly,
"The blackbirds? are you sure you can get them?"
"They are here already; the boy has a bag full of them."
"Give them to me," said the cook, who wore a square cap, that was
shaped like a box, upon his head.
"What do you want with them?" asked Gilligren.
"I want them for a pie for the King's dinner," answered Mister Baker;
"His Majesty ordered the dish, and I have hunted all over London for
the blackbirds, but could not find them. Now that you have brought
them, however, you have saved me my position as cook, and perhaps my
head as well."
"But it would be cruel to put the beautiful birds in a pie,"
remonstrated Gilligren, "and I shall not give them to you for such a
purpose."
"Nonsense!" replied the cook, "the King has ordered it; he is very fond
of the dish."
"Still, you cannot have them," declared the boy stoutly, "the birds
are mine, and I will not have them killed."
"But what can I do?" asked the cook, in perplexity; "the King has
ordered a blackbird pie, and your birds are the only blackbirds in
London."
Gilligren thought deeply for a moment, and conceived what he thought to
be a very good idea. If the sixpence was to make his fortune, then this
was his great opportunity.
"You can have the blackbirds on two conditions," he said.
"What are they?" asked the cook.
"One is that you will not kill the birds. The other condition is that
you secure me a position in the King's household."
"How can I put live birds in a pie?" enquired the cook.
"Very easily, if you make the pie big enough to hold them. You can
serve the pie after the King has satisfied his hunger with other
dishes, and it will amuse the company to find live birds in the pie
when they expected cooked ones."
"It is a risky experiment," exclaimed the cook, "for I do not know the
new King's temper. But the idea may please His Majesty, and since you
will not allow me to kill the birds, it is the best thing I can do. As
for your other condition, you seem to be a very bright boy, and so I
will have the butler take you as his page, and you shall stand back of
the King's chair and keep the flies away while he eats."
The butler being called, and his consent secured, the cook fell to
making the crusts for his novel pie, while Gilligren was taken to the
servants' hall and dressed in a gorgeous suit of the King's livery.
When the dinner was served, the King kept looking for the blackbird
pie, but he said nothing, and at last the pie was placed before him,
its crusts looking light and brown, and sprigs of myrtle being stuck in
the four corners to make it look more inviting.
Although the King had already eaten heartily, he smacked his lips when
he saw this tempting dish, and picking up the carving-fork he pushed it
quickly into the pie.
At once the crust fell in, and all the four and twenty blackbirds
put up their heads and began to look about them. And coming from the
blackness of the pie into the brilliantly lighted room they thought
they were in the sunshine, and began to sing merrily, while some of the
boldest hopped out upon the table or began flying around the room.
At first the good King was greatly surprised; but soon, appreciating
the jest, he lay back in his chair and laughed long and merrily. And
his courtiers and the fine ladies present heartily joined in the
laughter, for they also were greatly amused.
Then the King called for the cook, and when Mister Baker appeared,
uncertain of his reception, and filled with many misgivings, His
Majesty cried,
"Sirrah! how came you to think of putting live birds in the pie?"
The cook, fearing that the King was angry, answered,
"May it please your Majesty, it was not my thought, but the idea of the
boy who stands behind your chair."
The King turned his head, and seeing Gilligren, who looked very well in
his new livery, he said,
"You are a clever youth, and deserve a better position than that of a
butler's lad. Hereafter you shall be one of my own pages, and if you
serve me faithfully I will advance your fortunes with your deserts."
And Gilligren did serve the King faithfully, and as he grew older
acquired much honor and great wealth.
"After all," he used to say, "that sixpence made my fortune. And it all
came about through such a small thing as a handful of rye!"
[Illustration: The Story of Little Boy Blue]
The Story of Little Boy Blue
Little Boy Blue, come blow your horn,
The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn;
Where's the little boy that minds the sheep?
He's under the haystack, fast asleep!
THERE once lived a poor widow who supported herself and her only son
by gleaning in the fields the stalks of grain that had been missed by
the reapers. Her little cottage was at the foot of a beautiful valley,
upon the edge of the river that wound in and out among the green hills;
and although poor, she was contented with her lot, for her home was
pleasant and her lovely boy was a constant delight to her.
He had big blue eyes, and fair golden curls, and he loved his good
mother very dearly, and was never more pleased than when she allowed
him to help her with her work.
And so the years passed happily away till the boy was eight years old,
but then the widow fell sick, and their little store of money melted
gradually away.
"I don't know what we shall do for bread," she said, kissing her boy
with tears in her eyes, "for I am not yet strong enough to work, and we
have no money left."
"But I can work," answered the boy; "and I'm sure if I go to the Squire
up at the Hall he will give me something to do."
At first the widow was reluctant to consent to this, since she loved to
keep her child at her side, but finally, as nothing else could be done,
she decided to let him go to see the Squire.
Being too proud to allow her son to go to the great house in his ragged
clothes, she made him a new suit out of a pretty blue dress she had
herself worn in happier times, and when it was finished and the boy
dressed in it, he looked as pretty as a prince in a fairy tale. For the
bright blue jacket set off his curls to good advantage, and the color
just matched the blue of his eyes. His trousers were blue, also, and
she took the silver buckles from her own shoes and put them on his,
that he might appear the finer. And then she brushed his curls and
placed his big straw hat upon them and sent him away with a kiss to see
the Squire.
It so happened that the great man was walking in his garden with his
daughter Madge that morning, and was feeling in an especially happy
mood, so that when he suddenly looked up and saw a little boy before
him, he said, kindly,
"Well, my child, what can I do for you?"
"If you please, sir," said the boy, bravely, although he was frightened
at meeting the Squire face to face, "I want you to give me some work to
do, so that I can earn money."
"Earn money!" repeated the Squire, "why do you wish to earn money?"
"To buy food for my mother, sir. We are very poor, and since she is no
longer able to work for me I wish to work for her."
"But what can you do?" asked the Squire; "you are too small to work in
the fields."
"I could earn something, sir, couldn't I?"
His tone was so pleading that mistress Madge was unable to resist it,
and even the Squire was touched. The young lady came forward and took
the boy's hand in her own, and pressing back his curls, she kissed his
fair cheek.
"You shall be our shepherd," she said, pleasantly, "and keep the sheep
out of the meadows and the cows from getting into the corn. You know,
father," she continued, turning to the Squire, "it was only yesterday
you said you must get a boy to tend the sheep, and this little boy can
do it nicely."
"Very well," replied the Squire, "it shall be as you say, and if he is
attentive and watchful he will be able to save me a good bit of trouble
and so really earn his money."
Then he turned to the child and said,
"Come to me in the morning, my little man, and I will give you a silver
horn to blow, that you may call the sheep and the cows whenever they go
astray. What is your name?"
"Oh, never mind his name, papa!" broke in the Squire's daughter; "I
shall call him Little Boy Blue, since he is dressed in blue from head
to foot, and his dress but matches his eyes. And you must give him
a good wage, also, for surely no Squire before ever had a prettier
shepherd boy than this."
"Very good," said the Squire, cheerfully, as he pinched his daughter's
rosy cheek; "be watchful, Little Boy Blue, and you shall be well paid."
Then Little Boy Blue thanked them both very sweetly and ran back
over the hill and into the valley where his home lay nestled by the
river-side, to tell the good news to his mother.
The poor widow wept tears of joy when she heard his story, and smiled
when he told her that his name was to be Little Boy Blue. She knew the
Squire was a kind master and would be good to her darling son.
Early the next morning Little Boy Blue was at the Hall, and the
Squire's steward gave him a new silver horn, that glistened brightly in
the sunshine, and a golden cord to fasten it around his neck. And then
he was given charge of the sheep and the cows, and told to keep them
from straying into the meadowlands and the fields of grain.
It was not hard work, but just suited to Little Boy Blue's age, and he
was watchful and vigilant and made a very good shepherd boy indeed. His
mother needed food no longer, for the Squire paid her son liberally and
the Squire's daughter made a favorite of the small shepherd and loved
to hear the call of his silver horn echoing amongst the hills. Even
the sheep and the cows were fond of him, and always obeyed the sound
of his horn; therefore the Squire's corn thrived finely, and was never
trampled.
Little Boy Blue was now very happy, and his mother was proud and
contented and began to improve in health. After a few weeks she became
strong enough to leave the cottage and walk a little in the fields
each day; but she could not go far, because her limbs were too feeble
to support her long, so the most she could attempt was to walk as far
as the stile to meet Little Boy Blue as he came home from work in the
evening. Then she would lean on his shoulder and return to the cottage
with him, and the boy was very glad he could thus support his darling
mother and assist her faltering steps.
But one day a great misfortune came upon them, since it is true that no
life can be so happy but that sorrow will creep in to temper it.
Little Boy Blue came homeward one evening very light of heart and
whistled merrily as he walked, for he thought he should find his mother
awaiting him at the stile and a good supper spread upon the table in
the little cottage. But when he came to the stile his mother was not in
sight, and in answer to his call a low moan of pain reached his ears.
Little Boy Blue sprang over the stile and found lying upon the ground
his dear mother, her face white and drawn with suffering, and tears of
anguish running down her cheeks. For she had slipped upon the stile
and fallen, and her leg was broken!
[Illustration: Little Boy Blue]
Little Boy Blue ran to the cottage for water and bathed the poor
woman's face, and raised her head that she might drink. There were no
neighbors, for the cottage stood all alone by the river, so the child
was obliged to support his mother in his arms as best he could while
she crawled painfully back to the cottage. Fortunately, it was not far,
and at last she was safely laid upon her bed. Then Little Boy Blue
began to think what he should do next.
"Can I leave you alone while I go for the doctor, mamma?" he asked,
anxiously, as he held her clasped hands tightly in his two little ones.
His mother drew him towards her and kissed him.
"Take the boat, dear," she said, "and fetch the doctor from the
village. I shall be patient till you return."
Little Boy Blue rushed away to the river bank and unfastened the little
boat; and then he pulled sturdily down the river until he passed the
bend and came to the pretty village below. When he had found the doctor
and told of his mother's misfortune, the good man promised to attend
him at once, and very soon they were seated in the boat and on their
way to the cottage.
It was very dark by this time, but Little Boy Blue knew every turn and
bend in the river, and the doctor helped him pull at the oars, so that
at last they came to the place where a faint light twinkled through
the cottage window. They found the poor woman in much pain, but the
doctor quickly set and bandaged her leg, and gave her some medicine to
ease her suffering. It was nearly midnight when all was finished and
the doctor was ready to start back to the village.
"Take good care of your mother," he said to the boy, "and don't worry
about her, for it is not a bad break and the leg will mend nicely in
time; but she will be in bed many days, and you must nurse her as well
as you are able."
All through the night the boy sat by the bedside, bathing his mother's
fevered brow and ministering to her wants. And when the day broke she
was resting easily and the pain had left her, and she told Little Boy
Blue he must go to his work.
"For," said she, "more than ever now we need the money you earn from
the Squire, as my misfortune will add to the expenses of living, and
we have the doctor to pay. Do not fear to leave me, for I shall rest
quietly and sleep most of the time while you are away."
Little Boy Blue did not like to leave his mother all alone, but he knew
of no one he could ask to stay with her; so he placed food and water
by her bedside, and ate a little breakfast himself, and started off to
tend his sheep.
The sun was shining brightly, and the birds sang sweetly in the trees,
and the crickets chirped just as merrily as if this great trouble had
not come to Little Boy Blue to make him sad.
But he went bravely to his work, and for several hours he watched
carefully; and the men at work in the fields, and the Squire's
daughter, who sat embroidering upon the porch of the great house, heard
often the sound of his horn as he called the straying sheep to his side.
But he had not slept the whole night, and he was tired with his long
watch at his mother's bedside, and so in spite of himself the lashes
would droop occasionally over his blue eyes, for he was only a child,
and children feel the loss of sleep more than older people.
Still, Little Boy Blue had no intention of sleeping while he was on
duty, and bravely fought against the drowsiness that was creeping
over him. The sun shone very hot that day, and he walked to the shady
side of a big haystack and sat down upon the ground, leaning his back
against the stack.
The cows and sheep were quietly browsing near him, and he watched them
earnestly for a time, listening to the singing of the birds, and the
gentle tinkling of the bells upon the wethers, and the far-away songs
of the reapers that the breeze brought to his ears. And before he knew
it the blue eyes had closed fast, and the golden head lay back upon the
hay, and Little Boy Blue was fast asleep and dreaming that his mother
was well again and had come to the stile to meet him.
The sheep strayed near the edge of the meadow and paused, waiting for
the warning sound of the horn. And the breeze carried the fragrance
of the growing corn to the nostrils of the browsing cows and tempted
them nearer and nearer to the forbidden feast. But the silver horn
was silent, and before long the cows were feeding upon the Squire's
pet cornfield and the sheep were enjoying themselves amidst the juicy
grasses of the meadows.
The Squire himself was returning from a long, weary ride over his
farms, and when he came to the cornfield and saw the cows trampling
down the grain and feeding upon the golden stalks he was very angry.
"Little Boy Blue!" he cried; "ho! Little Boy Blue, come blow your
horn!" But there was no reply. He rode on a way and now discovered that
the sheep were deep within the meadows, and that made him more angry
still.
"Here, Isaac," he said to a farmer's lad who chanced to pass by, "where
is Little Boy Blue?"
"He's under the hay-stack, your honor, fast asleep!" replied Isaac with
a grin, for he had passed that way and seen that the boy was lying
asleep.
"Will you go and wake him?" asked the Squire; "for he must drive out
the sheep and the cows before they do more damage."
"Not I," replied Isaac, "if I wake him he'll surely cry, for he is
but a baby, and not fit to mind the sheep. But I myself will drive
them out for your honor," and away he ran to do so, thinking that now
the Squire would give him Little Boy Blue's place, and make him the
shepherd boy, for Isaac had long coveted the position.
The Squire's daughter, hearing the angry tones of her father's voice,
now came out to see what was amiss, and when she heard that Little Boy
Blue had failed in his trust she was deeply grieved, for she had loved
the child for his pretty ways.
The Squire dismounted from his horse and came to where the boy was
lying.
"Awake!" said he, shaking him by the shoulder, "and depart from my
lands, for you have betrayed my trust, and let the sheep and the cows
stray into the fields and meadows!"
Little Boy Blue started up at once and rubbed his eyes; and then he did
as Isaac prophesied, and began to weep bitterly, for his heart was sore
that he had failed in his duty to the good Squire and so forfeited his
confidence.
But the Squire's daughter was moved by the child's tears, so she took
him upon her lap and comforted him, asking,
"Why did you sleep, Little Boy Blue, when you should have watched the
cows and the sheep?"
"My mother has broken her leg," answered the boy, between his sobs,
"and I did not sleep all last night, but sat by her bedside nursing
her. And I tried hard not to fall asleep, but could not help myself;
and oh, Squire! I hope you will forgive me this once, for my poor
mother's sake!"
"Where does your mother live?" asked the Squire, in a kindly tone, for
he had already forgiven Little Boy Blue.
"In the cottage down by the river," answered the child; "and she is all
alone, for there is no one near to help us in our trouble."
"Come," said Mistress Madge, rising to her feet and taking his hand;
"lead us to your home, and we will see if we cannot assist your poor
mother."
So the Squire and his daughter and Little Boy Blue all walked down to
the little cottage, and the Squire had a long talk with the poor widow.
And that same day a big basket of dainties was sent to the cottage,
and Mistress Madge bade her own maid go to the widow and nurse her
carefully until she recovered.
So that after all Little Boy Blue did more for his dear mother by
falling asleep than he could had he kept wide awake; for after his
mother was well again the Squire gave them a pretty cottage to live in
very near to the great house itself, and the Squire's daughter was ever
afterward their good friend, and saw that they wanted for no comforts
of life.
And Little Boy Blue did not fall asleep again at his post, but watched
the cows and the sheep faithfully for many years, until he grew up to
manhood and had a farm of his own.
He always said his mother's accident had brought him good luck, but I
think it was rather his own loving heart and his devotion to his mother
that made him friends. For no one is afraid to trust a boy who loves to
serve and care for his mother.
[Illustration: The Cat and the Fiddle]
The Cat and the Fiddle
Hey, diddle, diddle,
The cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumped over the moon!
The little dog laughed
To see such sport,
And the dish ran off with the spoon!
PERHAPS you think this verse is all nonsense, and that the things it
mentions could never have happened; but they did happen, as you will
understand when I have explained them all to you clearly.
Little Bobby was the only son of a small farmer who lived out of town
upon a country road. Bobby's mother looked after the house and Bobby's
father took care of the farm, and Bobby himself, who was not very big,
helped them both as much as he was able.
It was lonely upon the farm, especially when his father and mother were
both busy at work, but the boy had one way to amuse himself that served
to pass many an hour when he would not otherwise have known what to do.
He was very fond of music, and his father one day brought him from the
town a small fiddle, or violin, which he soon learned to play upon. I
don't suppose he was a very fine musician, but the tunes he played
pleased himself, as well as his father and mother, and Bobby's fiddle
soon became his constant companion.
One day in the warm summer the farmer and his wife determined to drive
to the town to sell their butter and eggs and bring back some groceries
in exchange for them, and while they were gone Bobby was to be left
alone.
"We shall not be back till late in the evening," said his mother, "for
the weather is too warm to drive very fast. But I have left you a dish
of bread and milk for your supper, and you must be a good boy and amuse
yourself with your fiddle until we return."
Bobby promised to be good and look after the house, and then his father
and mother climbed into the wagon and drove away to the town.
The boy was not entirely alone, for there was the big black tabby-cat
lying upon the floor in the kitchen, and the little yellow dog barking
at the wagon as it drove away, and the big moolie-cow lowing in the
pasture down by the brook. Animals are often very good company, and
Bobby did not feel nearly as lonely as he would had there been no
living thing about the house.
Besides he had some work to do in the garden, pulling up the weeds that
grew thick in the carrot-bed, and when the last faint sounds of the
wheels had died away he went into the garden and began his task.
The little dog went too, for dogs love to be with people and to watch
what is going on; and he sat down near Bobby and cocked up his ears and
wagged his tail and seemed to take a great interest in the weeding.
Once in a while he would rush away to chase a butterfly or bark at a
beetle that crawled through the garden, but he always came back to the
boy and kept near his side.
By and by the cat, which found it lonely in the big, empty kitchen,
now that Bobby's mother was gone, came walking into the garden also,
and lay down upon a path in the sunshine and lazily watched the boy at
his work. The dog and the cat were good friends, having lived together
so long that they did not care to fight each other. To be sure Towser,
as the little dog was called, sometimes tried to tease pussy, being
himself very mischievous; but when the cat put out her sharp claws and
showed her teeth, Towser, like a wise little dog, quickly ran away, and
so they managed to get along in a friendly manner.
By the time the carrot-bed was all weeded, the sun was sinking behind
the edge of the forest and the new moon rising in the east, and now
Bobby began to feel hungry and went into the house for his dish of
bread and milk.
"I think I'll take my supper down to the brook," he said to himself,
"and sit upon the grassy bank while I eat it. And I'll take my fiddle,
too, and play upon it to pass the time until father and mother come
home."
It was a good idea, for down by the brook it was cool and pleasant;
so Bobby took his fiddle under his arm and carried his dish of bread
and milk down to the bank that sloped to the edge of the brook. It
was rather a steep bank, but Bobby sat upon the edge, and placing his
fiddle beside him, leaned against a tree and began to eat his supper.
The little dog had followed at his heels, and the cat also came slowly
walking after him, and as Bobby ate, they sat one on either side of him
and looked earnestly into his face as if they too were hungry. So he
threw some of the bread to Towser, who grabbed it eagerly and swallowed
it in the twinkling of an eye. And Bobby left some of the milk in
the dish for the cat, also, and she came lazily up and drank it in a
dainty, sober fashion, and licked both the dish and spoon until no drop
of the milk was left.
Then Bobby picked up his fiddle and tuned it and began to play some of
the pretty tunes he knew. And while he played he watched the moon rise
higher and higher until it was reflected in the smooth, still water
of the brook. Indeed, Bobby could not tell which was the plainest to
see, the moon in the sky or the moon in the water. The little dog lay
quietly on one side of him, and the cat softly purred upon the other,
and even the moolie-cow was attracted by the music and wandered near
until she was browsing the grass at the edge of the brook.
After a time, when Bobby had played all the tunes he knew, he laid the
fiddle down beside him, near to where the cat slept, and then he lay
down upon the bank and began to think.
It is very hard to think long upon a dreamy summer night without
falling asleep, and very soon Bobby's eyes closed and he forgot all
about the dog and the cat and the cow and the fiddle, and dreamed he
was Jack the Giant Killer and was just about to slay the biggest giant
in the world.
And while he dreamed, the cat sat up and yawned and stretched herself,
and then began wagging her long tail from side to side and watching the
moon that was reflected in the water.
But the fiddle lay just behind her, and as she moved her tail, she drew
it between the strings of the fiddle, where it caught fast. Then she
gave her tail a jerk and pulled the fiddle against the tree, which made
a loud noise. This frightened the cat greatly, and not knowing what
was the matter with her tail, she started to run as fast as she could.
But still the fiddle clung to her tail, and at every step it bounded
along and made such a noise that she screamed with terror. And in her
fright she ran straight towards the cow, which, seeing a black streak
coming at her, and hearing the racket made by the fiddle, became also
frightened and made such a jump to get out of the way that she jumped
right across the brook, leaping over the very spot where the moon shone
in the water!
Bobby had been awakened by the noise, and opened his eyes in time to
see the cow jump; and at first it seemed to him that she had actually
jumped over the moon in the sky, instead of the one in the brook.
The dog was delighted at the sudden excitement caused by the cat, and
ran barking and dancing along the bank, so that he presently knocked
against the dish, and behold! it slid down the bank, carrying the spoon
with it, and fell with a splash into the water of the brook.
As soon as Bobby recovered from his surprise he ran after the cat,
which had raced to the house, and soon came to where the fiddle lay
upon the ground, it having at last dropped from the cat's tail. He
examined it carefully, and was glad to find it was not hurt, in spite
of its rough usage. And then he had to go across the brook and drive
the cow back over the little bridge, and also to roll up his sleeve and
reach into the water to recover the dish and the spoon.
Then he went back to the house and lighted a lamp, and sat down to
compose a new tune before his father and mother returned.
The cat had recovered from her fright and lay quietly under the stove,
and Towser sat upon the floor panting, with his mouth wide open, and
looking so comical that Bobby thought he was actually laughing at the
whole occurrence.
And these were the words to the tune that Bobby composed that night:
Hey, diddle, diddle,
The cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumped over the moon!
The little dog laughed
To see such sport,
And the dish ran away with the spoon!
[Illustration: The Black Sheep]
The Black Sheep
Black sheep, black sheep, have you any wool?
Yes, my little master, three bags full;
One for my master and one for his dame,
And one for the little boy that lives in the lane.
IT was a bright spring day, and the sun shone very warm and pleasant
over the pastures, where the new grass was growing so juicy and tender
that all the sheep thought they had never tasted anything so delicious.
The sheep had had a strange experience that morning, for the farmer had
taken them down to the brook and washed them, and then he tied their
legs together and laid them on the grass and clipped all the heavy,
soft wool from their bodies with a great pair of shears.
The sheep did not like this very well, for every once in a while the
shears would pull the wool and hurt them; and when they were sheared
they felt very strange, for it was almost as if someone took off all
your clothes and let you run around naked. None of them were in a very
good temper this morning, although the sun shone so warmly and the
grass was so sweet, and as they watched the farmer and his man carry
their wool up to the house in great bags, the old ram said, crossly,
"I hope they are satisfied, now that they have stolen from us all our
soft, warm fleece."
"What are they going to do with it?" asked one of the sheep.
"Oh, they will spin it into threads and make coats for the men and
dresses for the women. For men are such strange creatures that no wool
grows on them at all, and that is why they selfishly rob us of our
fleece that they may cover their own skinny bodies!"
"It must be horrid to be a man," said the Black Sheep, "and not to have
any wool grow on you at all. I'm sorry for that little boy that lives
in the lane, for he will never be able to keep warm unless we give him
some of our wool."
"But what a shame it is," continued the ram, "for the farmer to steal
all the wool from us when we have taken all the trouble to grow it!"
"I don't mind," bleated a young lamb named Frisky, as it kicked up
its heels and gambolled about upon the grass; "it's nice to have all
that heavy wool cut off my back, for I sha'n't have to carry it around
wherever I go."
"Oh, indeed!" sneered the ram, "you like it, do you? Have you any idea
what you look like, all sheared down to your skin? How would you like
to have someone come along and see you, now that you are all head and
legs?"
"Oh, I wouldn't mind," said the lamb again; "I shall grow more wool by
winter-time, and I'm sure I don't look any worse than you do."
Some of the sheep looked at the ram and began to titter, for he was old
and thin, and looked very comical indeed without any wool. And this
made him so angry that he went off by himself and began eating grass,
and would not speak to the others at all.
"I don't know why sheep should feel badly about having their fleeces
cut," remarked the Black Sheep, thoughtfully, "for the farmer is very
kind to us, and so is his dame, and I am glad my wool serves to keep
them warm in the winter. For before the snow comes our wool will grow
out again, and we shall not be any the worse for our loss."
"What do those people who haven't any sheep do for clothes?" asked the
lamb.
"I'm sure I don't know. They must nearly freeze in the winter. Perhaps
the ram can tell us."
But the ram was still angry, and refused to say anything, so the sheep
stopped talking and began to scatter over the pasture and eat the
tender, new grass.
By and by the Black Sheep wandered near the lane, and looking up, saw
the little boy watching it through the bars.
"Good morning, Black Sheep," said the boy; "why do you look so funny
this morning?"
"They have cut off my wool," answered the sheep.
[Illustration: The Black Sheep]
"What will they do with it, Black Sheep?" enquired the little boy.
"They will make coats of it, to keep themselves warm."
"I wish I had some wool," said the boy, "for I need a new coat very
badly, and mamma is so poor she cannot buy me one."
"That is too bad," replied the Black Sheep; "but I shall have more wool
by and by, and then I will give you a bagful to make a new coat from."
"Will you really?" asked the boy, looking very much pleased.
"Indeed I will," answered the sheep, "for you are always kind and have
a pleasant word for me. So you watch until my wool grows again, and
then you shall have your share of it."
"Oh, thank you!" said the boy, and he ran away to tell his mother what
the Black Sheep had said.
When the farmer came into the field again the Black Sheep said to him,
"Master, how many bags of wool did you cut from my back?"
"Two bags full," replied the farmer; "and it was very nice wool indeed."
"If I grow three bags full the next time, may I have one bag for
myself?" asked the sheep.
"Why, what could you do with a bag of wool?" questioned the farmer.
"I want to give it to the little boy that lives in the lane. He is very
poor and needs a new coat."
"Very well," answered the master; "if you can grow three bags full I
will give one to the little boy."
So the Black Sheep began to grow wool, and tried in every way to grow
the finest and heaviest fleece in all the flock. She always lay in the
sunniest part of the pastures, and drank from the clearest part of
the brook, and ate only the young and juicy shoots of grass and the
tenderest of the sheep-sorrel. And each day the little boy came to the
bars and looked at the sheep and enquired how the wool was growing.
"I am getting along finely," the Black Sheep would answer, "for not one
sheep in the pasture has so much wool as I have grown already."
"Can I do anything to help you?" asked the little boy.
"Not that I think of," replied the sheep, "unless you could get me a
little salt. I believe salt helps the wool to grow."
So the boy ran to the house and begged his mother for a handful of
salt, and then he came back to the bars, where the Black Sheep licked
it out of his hand.
Day by day the wool on the sheep grew longer and longer, and even the
old ram noticed it and said,
"You are foolish to grow so much wool, for the farmer will cut it all
off, and it will do you no good. Now I am growing just as little as
possible, for since he steals what I have I am determined he shall get
very little wool from my back."
Black Sheep did not reply to this, for she thought the old ram very
ill-tempered and selfish, and believed he was doing wrong not to grow
more wool.
Finally the time came to shear the sheep again, and the farmer and his
man came into the pasture to look at them, and were surprised to see
what a fine, big fleece the Black Sheep had grown.
"There will be three bagsful at the least," said the master, "and I
will keep my promise and give one to the little boy in the lane. But,
my goodness! how scraggly and poor the old ram looks. There is scarcely
any wool on him at all. I think I must sell him to the butcher!"
And, in truth, although the ram kicked and struggled and bleated with
rage, they tied his legs and put him into the cart and carried him away
to the butcher. And that was the last the sheep ever saw of him.
But the Black Sheep ran up to the bars by the lane and waited with a
glad heart till the little boy came. When he saw the sheep waiting for
him he asked,
"Black Sheep, Black Sheep, have you any wool?"
And the sheep replied,
"Yes my little master, three bags full!"
"That is fine!" said the boy; "but who are the three bags for?"
"One for my master, one for his dame,
And one for the little boy that lives in the lane."
"Thank you, Black Sheep," said the little boy; "you are very kind, and
I shall always think of you when I wear my new coat."
The next day the sheep were all sheared, and the Black Sheep's fleece
made three big bagsful. The farmer kept his promise and carried one bag
to the little boy that lived in the lane, and the wool was so soft and
so heavy that there was enough not only for the new coat, but to make
his mother a warm dress as well.
The Black Sheep was very proud and happy when the mother and her little
boy came down to the bars and showed the new clothes that had been made
from the wool.
"This pays me for all my trouble," said the Black Sheep, and the little
boy reached his hand through the bars and patted her gently upon the
head.
[Illustration: Old King Cole]
Old King Cole
Old King Cole was a merry old soul,
And a merry old soul was he;
He called for his pipe and he called for his bowl
And he called for his fiddlers three.
OLD KING COLE was not always a king, nor was he born a member of any
royal family. It was only chance--"hard luck" he used to call it--that
made him a king at all.
He had always been a poor man, being the son of an apple peddler, who
died and left him nothing but a donkey and a fiddle. But that was
enough for Cole, who never bothered his head about the world's goods,
but took things as they came and refused to worry about anything.
So, when the house he lived in, and the furniture, and even the
apple-cart were sold to pay his father's debts, and he found himself
left with the old fiddle that nobody wanted and the old donkey that no
one would have--it being both vicious and unruly--he uttered no word of
complaint. He simply straddled the donkey and took the fiddle under his
arm and rode out into the world to seek his fortune.
When he came to a village he played a merry tune upon the fiddle and
sang a merry song with it, and the people gave him food most willingly.
There was no trouble about a place to sleep, for if he was denied a bed
he lay down with the donkey in a barn, or even on the village green,
and making a pillow of the donkey's neck he slept as soundly as anyone
could in a bed of down.
And so he continued riding along and playing upon his fiddle for many
years, until his head grew bald and his face was wrinkled and his bushy
eyebrows became as white as snow. But his eyes never lost their merry
twinkle, and he was just as fat and hearty as in his younger days,
while, if you heard him singing his songs and scraping upon the old
fiddle, you would know at once his heart was as young as ever.
He never guided the donkey, but let the beast go where it would, and so
it happened that at last they came to Whatland, and entered one day the
city where resided the King of that great country.
Now, even as Cole rode in upon his donkey the King of Whatland lay
dying in his palace, surrounded by all the luxury of the court. And as
he left no heir, and was the last of the royal line, the councilors and
wise men of Whatland were in a great quandary as to who should succeed
him. But finally they bethought themselves of the laws of the land,
and upon looking up the records they found in an old book a law that
provided for just such a case as this.
"If the King dies," so read the law, "and there be no one to succeed
to the throne, the prime minister shall be blinded and led from the
palace into the main street of the city. And he shall stretch out his
arms and walk about, and the first person he touches shall be crowned
as King of the land."
The councilors were greatly pleased when they found this law, for it
enabled them to solve the problem that confronted them. So when the
King had breathed his last they blindfolded the prime minister and led
him forth from the palace, and he began walking about with outstretched
arms seeking someone to touch.
Of course the people knew nothing of this law, nor even that the old
King was dead, and seeing the prime minister groping about blindfolded
they kept out of his way, fearing they might be punished if he stumbled
against them. But Cole was then riding along on the donkey, and did not
even know it was the prime minister who was feeling about in such a
funny way. So he began to laugh, and the minister, who had by this time
grown tired of the game, heard the laugh and came toward the stranger
and touched him, and immediately all the wise men and the councilors
fell down before him and hailed him as King of Whatland!
Thus did the wandering fiddler become King Cole, and you may be sure
he laughed more merrily than ever when they explained to him his good
fortune.
[Illustration: Old King Cole]
They carried him within the palace and dressed him in purple and fine
linen, and placed a crown of gold upon his bald head and a jeweled
scepter in his wrinkled hand, and all this amused old King Cole very
much. When he had been led to the great throne-room and placed upon the
throne of gold (where the silken cushions felt very soft and pleasant
after his long ride upon the donkey's sharp back) the courtiers all
knelt before him and asked what commands he wished to give, since
everyone in the kingdom must now obey his slightest word.
"Oh well," said the new King, "I think the first thing I would like is
my old pipe. You'll find it in the pocket of the ragged coat I took
off."
One of the officers of the court at once ran for the pipe, and when it
was brought King Cole filled it with tobacco from his greasy pouch and
lighted it, and you can imagine what a queer sight it was to see the
fat King sitting upon the rich throne, dressed in silks and satins and
a golden crown, and smoking at the same time an old black pipe!
The councilors looked at each other in dismay, and the ladies of the
court sneezed and coughed and seemed greatly shocked, and all this
pleased old King Cole so much that he lay back in his throne and roared
with laughter.
Then the prime minister came forward very gravely, and bowing low he
said,
"May it please your Majesty, it is not the custom of Kings to smoke
a pipe while seated upon the throne."
"But it is my custom," answered Cole.
"It is impolite, and--unkingly!" ventured the minister.
"Now, see here, old fellow," replied his Majesty, "I didn't ask to
be King of this country; it's all your own doing. All my life I have
smoked whenever I wished, and if I can't do as I please here, why, I
won't be king--so there!"
"But you must be the King, your Majesty, whether you want to or not.
The law says so."
"If that's the case," returned the King, "I can do as I please in other
things. So you just run and get me a bowl of punch, there's a good
fellow."
The aged minister did not like to be addressed thus, but the King's
commands must be obeyed; so, although the court was greatly horrified,
he brought the bowl of punch, and the King pushed his crown onto the
back of his head and drank heartily, and smacked his lips afterwards.
"That's fine!" he said; "but say--what do you people do to amuse
yourselves?"
"Whatever your Majesty commands," answered one of the councilors.
"What! must I amuse you as well as myself? Methinks it is no easy
task to be a King if so many things are required of me. But I suppose
it is useless to fret, since the law obliges me to reign in this
great country against my will. Therefore will I make the best of my
misfortune, and propose we have a dance, and forget our cares. Send at
once for some fiddlers, and clear the room for our merry-making, and
for once in our lives we shall have a jolly good time!"
So one of the officers of the court went out and soon returned with
three fiddlers, and when at the King's command they struck up a tune,
the monarch was delighted, for every fiddler had a very fine fiddle and
knew well how to use it.
Now, Old King Cole was a merry old soul, so he soon set all the ladies
and gentlemen of the court to dancing, and he himself took off his
crown and his ermine robe and laid them upon the throne, while he
danced with the prettiest lady present till he was all out of breath.
Then he dismissed them, and they were all very well pleased with the
new King, for they saw that, in spite of his odd ways, he had a kind
heart, and would try to make every one about him as merry as he was
himself.
The next morning the King was informed that several of his subjects
craved audience with him, as there were matters of dispute between
them that must be settled. King Cole at first refused to see them,
declaring he knew nothing of the quarrels of his subjects and they must
manage their own affairs; but when the prime minister told him it was
one of his duties as king, and the law required it, he could not do
otherwise than submit. So he put on his crown and his ermine robe and
sat upon the throne, although he grumbled a good deal at the necessity;
for never having had any business of his own to attend to he thought
it doubly hard that in his old age he must attend to the business of
others.
The first case of dispute was between two men who each claimed to own a
fine cow, and after hearing the evidence, the King ordered the cow to
be killed and roasted and given to the poor, since that was the easiest
way to decide the matter. Then followed a quarrel between two subjects
over ten pieces of gold, one claiming the other owed him that sum. The
King, thinking them both rascals, ordered the gold to be paid, and then
he took it and scattered it amongst the beggars outside the palace.
By this time King Cole decided he had transacted enough business for
one day, so he sent word to those outside that if anyone had a quarrel
that was not just he should be severely punished; and, indeed, when the
subjects learned the manner in which the King settled disputes, they
were afraid to come to him, as both sides were sure to be losers by the
decision. And that saved King Cole a lot of trouble thereafter, for the
people thought best to settle their own differences.
The King, now seeing he was free to do as he pleased, retired to his
private chamber, where he called for the three fiddlers and made them
play for him while he smoked his pipe and drank a bowl of punch.
Every evening he had a dance in the palace, and every day there were
picnics and merry-makings of all kinds, and before long King Cole had
the reputation of having the merriest court in all the world.
He loved to feast and to smoke and to drink his punch, and he was never
so merry as when others were merry with him, so that the three fiddlers
were almost always by his side, and at any hour of the day you could
hear sweet strains of music echoing through the palace.
Old King Cole did not forget the donkey that had been his constant
companion for so long. He had a golden saddle made for him, with a
saddle-cloth broidered in gold and silver, and the bridle was studded
with diamonds and precious stones, all taken from the King's treasury.
And when he rode out, the old fat King always bestrode the donkey,
while his courtiers rode on either side of him upon their prancing
chargers.
Old King Cole reigned for many years, and was generally beloved by his
subjects; for he always gave liberally to all who asked, and was always
as merry and happy as the day was long.
When he died the new King was found to be of a very different temper,
and ruled the country with great severity; but this only served to make
the memory of Old King Cole more tenderly cherished by his people, and
they often sighed when they recalled his merry pranks, and the good
times they enjoyed under his rule.
[Illustration: Mistress Mary]
Mistress Mary
Mistress Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With dingle bells and cockle shells
And cowslips, all in a row.
HIGH upon a cliff that overlooked the sea was a little white cottage,
in which dwelt a sailor and his wife, with their two strong sons and a
little girl. The sons were also sailors, and had made several voyages
with their father in a pretty ship called the "Skylark." Their names
were Hobart and Robart. The little girl's name was Mary, and she was
very happy indeed when her father and her brothers were at home, for
they petted her and played games with, her and loved her very dearly.
But when the "Skylark" went to sea, and her mother and herself were
left alone in the little white cottage, the hours were very dull and
tedious, and Mary counted the days until the sailors came home again.
One spring, just as the grasses began to grow green upon the cliff
and the trees were dressing their stiff, barren branches in robes of
delicate foliage, the father and brothers bade good-bye to Mary and her
mother, for they were starting upon a voyage to the Black Sea.
"And how long will you be gone, papa?" asked Mary, who was perched
upon her father's knee, where she could nestle her soft cheek against
his bushy whiskers.
"How long?" he repeated, stroking her curls tenderly as he spoke;
"well, well, my darling, it will be a long time indeed! Do you know the
cowslips that grow in the pastures, Mary?"
"Oh, yes; I watch for them every spring," she answered.
"And do you know the dingle-bells that grow near the edge of the wood?"
he asked again.
"I know them well, papa," replied Mary, "for often I gather their blue
blossoms and put them in a vase upon the table."
"And how about the cockle-shells?"
"Them also I know," said Mary eagerly, for she was glad her father
should find her so well acquainted with the field flowers; "there is
nothing prettier than the big white flowers of the cockle-shells. But
tell me, papa, what have the flowers to do with your coming home?"
"Why, just this, sweetheart," returned the sailor gravely; "all the
time that it takes the cowslips and dingle-bells and cockle-shells
to sprout from the ground, and grow big and strong, and blossom into
flower, and, yes--to wither and die away again--all that time shall
your brothers and I sail the seas. But when the cold winds begin to
blow, and the flowers are gone, then, God willing, we shall come back
to you; and by that time you may have grown wiser and bigger, and I am
sure you will have grown older. So one more kiss, sweetheart, and then
we must go, for our time is up."
The next morning, when Mary and her mother had dried their eyes, which
had been wet with grief at the departure of their loved ones, the
little girl asked earnestly,
"Mamma, may I make a flower-garden?"
"A flower-garden!" repeated her mother in surprise; "why do you wish a
flower-garden, Mary?"
"I want to plant in it the cockle-shells and the cowslips and the
dingle-bells," she answered.
And her mother, who had heard what the sailor had said to his little
girl, knew at once what Mary meant; so she kissed her daughter and
replied,
"Yes, Mary, you may have the flower-garden, if you wish. We will dig a
nice little bed just at the side of the house, and you shall plant your
flowers and care for them yourself."
"I think I'd rather have the flowers at the front of the house," said
Mary.
"But why?" enquired her mother; "they will be better sheltered at the
side."
"I want them in front," persisted Mary, "for the sun shines stronger
there."
"Very well," answered her mother, "make your garden at the front, if
you will, and I will help you to dig up the ground."
"But I don't want you to help," said Mary, "for this is to be my own
little flower-garden, and I want to do all the work myself."
Now I must tell you that this little girl, although very sweet in many
ways, had one serious fault. She was inclined to be a bit contrary, and
put her own opinions and ideas before those of her elders. Perhaps Mary
meant no wrong in this; she often thought she knew better how to do a
thing than others did; and in such a case she was not only contrary,
but anxious to have her own way.
And so her mother, who did not like her little daughter to be unhappy,
often gave way to her in small things, and now she permitted Mary to
make her own garden, and plant it as she would.
So Mary made a long, narrow bed at the front of the house, and then she
prepared to plant her flowers.
"If you scatter the seeds," said her mother, "the flower-bed will look
very pretty."
Now this was what Mary was about to do; but since her mother advised
it, she tried to think of another way, for, as I said, she was contrary
at times. And in the end she planted the dingle-bells all in one
straight row, and the cockle-shells in another straight row the length
of the bed, and she finished by planting the cowslips in another long
row at the back.
Her mother smiled, but said nothing; and now, as the days passed by,
Mary watered and tended her garden with great care; and when the
flowers began to sprout she plucked all the weeds that grew among
them, and so in the mild spring weather the plants grew finely.
"When they have grown up big and strong," said Mary one morning, as
she weeded the bed, "and when they have budded and blossomed and faded
away again, then papa and my brothers will come home. And I shall call
the cockle-shells papa, for they are the biggest and strongest; and the
dingle-bells shall be brother Hobart, and the cowslips brother Robart.
And now I feel as if the flowers were really my dear ones, and I must
be very careful that they come to no harm!"
She was filled with joy when one morning she ran out to her
flower-garden after breakfast and found the dingle-bells and cowslips
were actually blossoming, while even the cockle-shells were showing
their white buds. They looked rather comical, all standing in stiff,
straight rows, one after the other; but Mary did not mind that.
While she was working she heard the tramp of a horse's hoofs, and
looking up saw the big bluff Squire riding toward her. The big Squire
was very fond of children, and whenever he rode near the little
white cottage he stopped to have a word with Mary. He was old and
bald-headed, and he had side-whiskers that were very red in color and
very short and stubby; but there was ever a merry twinkle in his blue
eyes, and Mary well knew him for her friend.
Now, when she looked up and saw him coming toward her flower-garden,
she nodded and smiled at him, and the big bluff Squire rode up to her
side, and looked down with a smile at her flowers.
Then he said to her in rhyme (for it was a way of speaking the jolly
Squire had),
"Mistress Mary, so contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With dingle-bells and cockle-shells
And cowslips all in a row!"
And Mary, being a sharp little girl, and knowing the Squire's queer
ways, replied to him likewise in rhyme, saying,
"I thank you, Squire, that you enquire
How well the flowers are growing;
The dingle-bells and cockle-shells
And cowslips all are blowing!"
The Squire laughed at this reply, and patted her upon her head, and
then he continued,
"'Tis aptly said. But prithee, maid,
Why thus your garden fill
When ev'ry field the same flowers yield
To pluck them as you will?"
"That is a long story, Squire," said Mary; "but this much I may tell
you,
"The cockle-shell is father's flower,
The cowslip here is Robart,
The dingle-bell, I now must tell,
I've named for Brother Hobart.
"And when the flowers have lived their lives
In sunshine and in rain,
And then do fade, why, papa said
He'd sure come home again."
"Oh, that's the idea, is it?" asked the big bluff Squire, forgetting
his poetry. "Well, it's a pretty thought, my child, and I think because
the flowers are strong and hearty that you may know your father and
brothers are the same; and I'm sure I hope they'll come back from their
voyage safe and sound. I shall come and see you again, little one, and
watch the garden grow." And then he said "gee-up" to his gray mare, and
rode away.
The very next day, to Mary's great surprise and grief, she found the
leaves of the dingle-bells curling and beginning to wither.
"Oh, mamma," she called, "come quick! Something is surely the matter
with brother Hobart!"
"The dingle-bells are dying," said her mother, after looking carefully
at the flowers; "but the reason is that the cold winds from the sea
swept right over your garden last night, and dingle-bells are delicate
flowers and grow best where they are sheltered by the woods. If you had
planted them at the side of the house, as I wished you to, the wind
would not have killed them."
Mary did not reply to this, but sat down and began to weep, feeling at
the same time that her mother was right and it was her own fault for
being so contrary.
While she sat thus the Squire rode up, and called to her
"Fie, Mary, fie! Why do you cry,
And blind your eyes to knowing
How dingle-bells and cockle-shells
And cowslips all are growing?"
"Oh, Squire!" sobbed Mary, "I am in great trouble.
"Each dingle-bell I loved so well
Before my eyes is dying,
And much I fear my brother dear
In sickness now is lying!"
"Nonsense!" said the Squire; "because you named the flowers after your
brother Hobart is no reason he should be affected by the fading of
the dingle-bells. I very much suspect the real reason they are dying
is because the cold sea wind caught them last night. Dingle-bells are
delicate. If you had scattered the cockle-shells and cowslips all about
them, the stronger plants would have protected the weaker; but you see,
my girl, you planted the dingle-bells all in a row, and so the wind
caught them nicely."
Again Mary reproached herself for having been contrary and refusing to
listen to her mother's advice; but the Squire's words comforted her,
nevertheless, and made her feel that brother Hobart and the flowers had
really nothing to do with each other.
The weather now began to change, and the cold sea winds blew each night
over Mary's garden. She did not know this, for she was always lying
snugly tucked up in her bed, and the warm morning sun usually drove
away the winds; but her mother knew it, and feared Mary's garden would
suffer.
One day Mary came into the house where her mother was at work and said,
gleefully,
"Papa and my brothers will soon be home now."
"Why do you think so?" asked her mother.
"Because the cockle-shells and cowslips are both fading away and
dying, just as the dingle-bells did, and papa said when they faded and
withered he and the boys would come back to us."
Mary's mother knew that the harsh winds had killed the flowers before
their time, but she did not like to disappoint her darling, so she only
said, with a sigh,
"I hope you are right, Mary, for we both shall be glad to welcome our
dear ones home again."
But soon afterward the big bluff Squire came riding up, as was his
wont, to where Mary stood by her garden, and he at once asked,
"Pray tell me, dear, though much I fear
The answer sad I know,
How grow the sturdy cockle-shells
And cowslips, all in a row?"
And Mary looked up at him with her bright smile and answered,
"Dingle-bells and cockle-shells
And cowslips are all dead,
And now my papa's coming home,
For so he surely said."
"Ah," said the Squire, looking at her curiously, "I'm afraid you are
getting way ahead of time. See here, Mary, how would you like a little
ride with me on my nag?"
"I would like it very much, sir," replied Mary.
"Then reach up your hand. Now!--there you are, little one!" and Mary
found herself seated safely in front of the Squire, who clasped her
with one strong arm so that she could not slip off.
"Now, then," he said, "we'll take a little ride down the hill and by
the path that runs beside the wood."
So he gave the rein to his mare and they rode along, chatting merrily
together, till they came to the wood. Then said the Squire,
"Take a look within that nook
And tell me what is there."
And Mary exclaimed,
"A dingle-bell, and truth to tell
In full bloom, I declare!"
The Squire now clucked to his nag, and as they rode away he said,
"Now come with me and you shall see
A field with cowslips bright,
And not a garden in the land
Can show so fair a sight."
And so it was, for as they rode through the pastures the cowslips
bloomed on every hand, and Mary's eyes grew bigger and bigger as she
thought of her poor garden with its dead flowers.
And then the Squire took her toward the little brook that wandered
through the meadows, flowing over the pebbles with a soft, gurgling
sound that was very nearly as sweet as music; and when they reached it
the big Squire said,
"If you will look beside the brook
You'll see, I know quite well,
That hidden in each mossy nook
Is many a cockle-shell."
This was indeed true, and as Mary saw them she suddenly dropped her
head and began to weep.
"What's the matter, little one?" asked the Squire in his kind, bluff
voice. And Mary answered,
"Although the flowers I much admire,
You know papa did say
He won't be home again, Squire,
Till all have passed away."
"You must be patient, my child," replied her friend; "and surely you
would not have been thus disappointed had you not tried to make the
field flowers grow where they do not belong. Gardens are all well
enough for fancy flowers to grow in, but the posies that God gave to
all the world, and made to grow wild in the great garden of Nature,
will never thrive in other places. Your father meant you to watch the
flowers in the field; and if you will come and visit them each day,
you will find the time of waiting very short indeed."
Mary dried her eyes and thanked the kindly old Squire, and after that
she visited the fields each day and watched the flowers grow.
And it was not so very long, as the Squire said, before the blossoms
began to wither and fall away; and finally one day Mary looked out over
the sea and saw a little speck upon the waters that looked like a sail.
And when it came nearer and had grown larger, both she and her mother
saw that it was the "Skylark" come home again, and you can imagine how
pleased and happy the sight of the pretty little ship made them.
And soon after, when Mary had been hugged by her two sunburned brothers
and was clasped in her father's strong arms, she whispered,
"I knew you were coming soon, papa."
"And how did you know, sweetheart?" he asked, giving her an extra kiss.
"Because I watched the flowers; and the dingle-bells and cowslips and
cockle-shells are all withered and faded away. And did you not say
that, God willing, when this happened you would come back to us?"
"To be sure I did," answered her father, with a happy laugh; "and
I must have spoken truly, sweetheart, for God in His goodness was
willing, and here I am!"
[Illustration: The Wond'rous Wise Man]
The Wond'rous Wise Man
There was a man in our town
And he was wond'rous wise;
He jumped into a bramble bush
And scratched out both his eyes.
And when he saw his eyes were out,
With all his might and main
He jumped into another bush
And scratched them in again!
OUR town is a quiet little town, and lies nestling in a little valley
surrounded by pretty green hills. I do not think you would ever have
heard our town mentioned had not the man lived there who was so wise
that everyone marvelled at his great knowledge.
He was not always a wise man; he was a wise boy before he grew to
manhood, and even when a child he was so remarkable for his wisdom that
people shook their heads gravely and said, "when he grows up there will
be no need of books, for he will know everything!"
His father thought he had a wond'rous wise look when he was born, and
so he named him Solomon, thinking that if indeed he turned out to be
wise the name would fit him nicely, whereas, should he be mistaken,
and the boy grow up stupid, his name could be easily changed to Simon.
But the father was not mistaken, and the boy's name remained Solomon.
When he was still a child Solomon confounded the schoolmaster by
asking, one day,
"Can you tell me, sir, why a cow drinks water from a brook?"
"Well really," replied the abashed schoolmaster, "I have never given
the subject serious thought. But I will sleep upon the question, and
try to give you an answer to-morrow."
But the schoolmaster could not sleep; he remained awake all the night
trying to think why a cow drinks water from a brook, and in the morning
he was no nearer the answer than before. So he was obliged to appear
before the wise child and acknowledge that he could not solve the
problem.
"I have looked at the subject from every side," said he, "and given it
careful thought, and yet I cannot tell why a cow drinks water from a
brook."
"Sir," replied the wise child, "it is because the cow is thirsty."
The shock of this answer was so great that the schoolmaster fainted
away, and when they had brought him to he made a prophecy that Solomon
would grow up to be a wond'rous wise man.
It was the same way with the village doctor. Solomon came to him one
day and asked,
"Tell me, sir, why has a man two eyes?"
"Bless me!" exclaimed the doctor, "I must think a bit before I answer,
for I have never yet had my attention called to this subject."
So he thought for a long time, and then he said,
"I must really give it up. I cannot tell, for the life of me, why a man
has two eyes. Do you know?"
"Yes, sir," answered the boy.
"Then," said the doctor, after taking a dose of quinine to brace up his
nerves, for he remembered the fate of the schoolmaster, "then please
tell me why a man has two eyes."
"A man has two eyes, sir," returned Solomon, solemnly, "because he was
born that way."
And the doctor marvelled greatly at so much wisdom in a little child,
and made a note of it in his note-book.
Solomon was so full of wisdom that it flowed from his mouth in a
perfect stream, and every day he gave new evidence to his friends that
he could scarcely hold all the wise thoughts that came to him. For
instance, one day he said to his father,
"I perceive our dog has six legs."
"Oh, no!" replied his father, "our dog has only four legs."
"You are surely mistaken, sir," said Solomon, with the gravity that
comes from great wisdom, "these are our dog's fore legs, are they not?"
pointing to the front legs of the dog.
[Illustration: The Wond'rous Wise Man]
"Yes," answered his father.
"Well," continued Solomon, "the dog has two other legs, besides, and
two and four are six; therefore the dog has six legs."
"But that is very old," exclaimed his father.
"True," replied Solomon, "but this is a young dog."
Then his father bowed his head in shame that his own child should teach
him wisdom.
Of course Solomon wore glasses upon his eyes--all wise people wear
them,--and his face was ever grave and solemn, while he walked slowly
and stiffly so that people might know he was the celebrated wise man,
and do him reverence.
And when he had grown to manhood the fame of his wisdom spread all
over the world, so that all the other wise men were jealous, and tried
in many ways to confound him; but Solomon always came out ahead and
maintained his reputation for wisdom.
Finally a very wise man came from Cumberland, to meet Solomon and see
which of them was the wisest. He was a very big man, and Solomon was
a very little man, and so the people all shook their heads sadly and
feared Solomon had met his match, for if the Cumberland man was as full
of wisdom as Solomon, he had much the advantage in size.
They formed a circle around the two wise men, and then began the trial
to see which was the wisest.
"Tell me," said Solomon, looking straight up into the big man's face
with an air of confidence that reassured his friends, "how many sisters
has a boy who has one father, one mother, and seven brothers?"
The big wise man got very red in the face, and scowled and coughed and
stammered, but he could not tell.
"I do not know," he acknowledged; "nor do you know, either, for there
is no rule to go by."
"Oh, yes, I know," replied Solomon; "he has two sisters. I know this is
the true answer, because I know the boy and his father and his mother
and his brothers and his sisters, so that I cannot be mistaken."
Now all the people applauded at this, for they were sure Solomon had
got the best of the man from Cumberland.
But it was now the big man's turn to try Solomon, so he said,
"Fingers five are on my hand;
All of them upright do stand.
One a dog is, chasing kittens;
One a cat is, wearing mittens;
One a rat is, eating cheese;
One a wolf is, full of fleas;
One a fly is, in a cup--
How many fingers do I hold up?"
"Four," replied Solomon, promptly, "for one of them is a thumb!"
The wise man from Cumberland was so angry at being outwitted that he
sprang at Solomon and would no doubt have injured him had not our
wise man turned and run away as fast as he could go. The man from
Cumberland at once ran after him, and chased him through the streets
and down the lanes and up the side of the hill where the bramble-bushes
grow.
Solomon ran very fast, but the man from Cumberland was bigger, and he
was just about to grab our wise man by his coat-tails when Solomon gave
a great jump, and jumped right into the middle of a big bramble-bush!
The people were all coming up behind, and as the big man did not dare
to follow Solomon into the bramble-bush, he turned away and ran home to
Cumberland.
All the men and women of our town were horrified when they came up and
found their wise man in the middle of the bramble-bush, and held fast
by the brambles, which scratched and pricked him on every side.
"Solomon! are you hurt?" they cried.
"I should say I am hurt!" replied Solomon, with a groan; "my eyes are
scratched out!"
"How do you know they are?" asked the village doctor.
"I can see they are scratched out!" replied Solomon; and the people all
wept with grief at this, and Solomon howled louder than any of them.
Now the fact was that when Solomon jumped into the bramble-bush he was
wearing his spectacles, and the brambles pushed the glasses so close
against his eyes that he could not open them; and so, as every other
part of him was scratched and bleeding, and he could not open his
eyes, he made sure they were scratched out.
"How am I to get out of here?" he asked at last.
"You must jump out," replied the doctor, "since you have jumped in."
So Solomon made a great jump, and although the brambles tore him
cruelly, he sprang entirely out of the bush and fell plump into another
one.
This last bush, however, by good luck, was not a bramble-bush, but one
of elderberry, and when he jumped into it his spectacles fell off, and
to his surprise he opened his eyes and found that he could see again.
"Where are you now?" called out the doctor.
"I'm in the elderberry bush, and I've scratched my eyes in again!"
answered Solomon.
When the people heard this they marvelled greatly at the wisdom of a
man who knew how to scratch his eyes in after they were scratched out;
and they lifted Solomon from the bush and carried him home, where they
bound up the scratches and nursed him carefully until he was well again.
And after that no one ever questioned the wond'rous wisdom of our wise
man, and when he finally died, at a good old age, they built a great
monument over his grave, and on one side of it were the words,
"Solomon; the Man who was Wond'rous Wise."
and on the other side was a picture of a bramble-bush.
[Illustration: What Jack Horner Did]
What Jack Horner Did
Little Jack Horner sat in a corner,
Eating a Christmas pie;
He put in his thumb and pulled out a plum
And said, "What a good boy am I!"
LITTLE JACK HORNER lived in an old, tumble-down house at the edge of a
big wood; and there many generations of Horners had lived before him,
and had earned their living by chopping wood. Jack's father and mother
were both dead, and he lived with his grandfather and grandmother, who
took great pains to teach him all that a boy should know.
They lived very comfortably and happily together until one day a great
tree fell upon Grandpa Horner and crushed his legs; and from that time
on he could not work at all, but had to be nursed and tended very
carefully.
This calamity was a great affliction to the Horners. Grandma Horner had
a little money saved up in an old broken teapot that she kept in the
cupboard, but that would not last them a great time, and when it was
gone they would have nothing with which to buy food.
"I'm sure I don't know what is to become of us," she said to Jack,
"for I am too old to work, and you are too young." She always told her
troubles to Jack now; small though he was, he was the only one she
could talk freely with, since it would only bother the poor crippled
grandfather to tell him how low the money was getting in the teapot.
"It is true," replied Jack, "that you are too old to work, for your
rheumatism will barely allow you to care for the house and cook our
meals; and there is grandpa to be tended. But I am not too young to
work, grandma, and I shall take my little hatchet and go into the wood.
I cannot cut the big trees, but I can the smaller ones, and I am sure
I shall be able to pile up enough wood to secure the money we need for
food."
"You are a good boy, dear," said grandma Horner, patting his head
lovingly, "but you are too young for the task. We must think of some
other way to keep the wolf from the door."
But Jack was not shaken in his resolve, although he saw it was useless
to argue further with his grandmother. So the next morning he rose very
early and took his little axe and went into the wood to begin his work.
There were a good many branches scattered about, and these he was able
to cut with ease; and then he piled them up nicely to be sold when the
wood-carter next came around. When dinner-time came he stopped long
enough to eat some of the bread and cheese he had brought with him,
and then he resumed his work.
But scarcely had he chopped one branch when a faint cry from the wood
arrested his attention. It seemed as if some one was shouting for help.
Jack listened a moment, and again heard the cry.
Without hesitation he seized his axe and ran toward the place from
whence the cry had proceeded. The underbrush was very thick and the
thorns caught in his clothing and held him back, but with the aid of
his sharp little axe he overcame all difficulties and presently reached
a place where the wood was more open.
He paused here, for often he had been told by Grandpa Horner that there
were treacherous bogs in this part of the wood, which were so covered
with mosses and ferns that the ground seemed solid enough to walk
upon. But woe to the unlucky traveler who stepped unawares upon their
surface; for instantly he found himself caught by the clinging moist
clay, to sink farther and farther into the bog until, swallowed up in
the mire, he would meet a horrible death beneath its slimy surface.
His grandfather had told him never to go near these terrible bogs, and
Jack, who was an obedient boy, had always kept away from this part of
the wood. But as he paused, again that despairing cry came to his ears,
very near to him now, it seemed:
"Help!"
Forgetful of all save a desire to assist this unknown sufferer, Jack
sprang forward with an answering cry, and only halted when he found
himself upon the edge of a vast bog.
[Illustration: Jack Horner]
"Where are you?" he then shouted.
"Here!" answered a voice, and, looking down, Jack saw, a few feet
away, the head and shoulders of a man. He had walked into the bog and
sunk into its treacherous depths nearly to his waist, and, although he
struggled bravely, his efforts only seemed to draw him farther down
toward a frightful death.
For a moment, filled with horror and dismay, Jack stood looking at the
man. Then he remembered a story he had once heard of how a man had been
saved from the bog.
"Be quiet, sir!" he called to the unfortunate stranger; "save all your
strength, and I may yet be able to rescue you."
He then ran to a tall sapling that stood near and began chopping away
with his axe. The keen blade speedily cut through the young but tough
wood, and, then Jack dragged it to the edge of the bog, and, exerting
all his strength, pushed it out until the sapling was within reach of
the sinking man.
"Grab it, sir!" he called out, "and hold on tightly. It will keep you
from sinking farther into the mire, and when you have gained more
strength you may be able to pull yourself out."
"You are a brave boy," replied the stranger, "and I shall do as you
tell me."
It was a long and tedious struggle, and often Jack thought the stranger
would despair and be unable to drag his body from the firm clutch of
the bog; but little by little the man succeeded in drawing himself up
by the sapling, and at last he was saved, and sank down exhausted upon
the firm ground by Jack's side.
The boy then ran for some water that stood in a slough near by, and
with this he bathed the stranger's face and cooled his parched lips.
Then he gave him the remains of his bread and cheese, and soon the
gentleman became strong enough to walk with Jack's help to the cottage
at the edge of the wood.
Grandma Horner was greatly surprised to see the strange man
approaching, supported by her sturdy little grandson; but she ran to
help him, and afterward gave him some old clothing of Grandpa Horner's
to replace his own muddy garments. When the man had fully rested, she
brewed him her last bit of tea, and by that time the stranger declared
he felt as good as new.
"Is this your son, ma'am?" he asked, pointing to Jack.
"He is my grandson, sir," answered the woman.
"He is a good boy," declared the stranger, "and a brave boy as well,
for he has saved my life. I live far away in a big city, and have
plenty of money. If you will give Jack to me I will take him home and
educate him, and make a great man of him when he grows up."
Grandma Horner hesitated, for the boy was very dear to her and the
pride of her old age; but Jack spoke up for himself.
"I'll not go," he said, stoutly; "you are very kind, and mean well by
me, but grandma and grandpa have only me to care for them now, and I
must stay with them and cut the wood, and so keep them supplied with
food."
The stranger said nothing more, but he patted Jack's head kindly, and
soon after left them and took the road to the city.
The next morning Jack went to the wood again, and began chopping as
bravely as before. And by hard work he cut a great deal of wood, which
the wood-carter carried away and sold for him. The pay was not very
much, to be sure, but Jack was glad that he was able to earn something
to help his grandparents.
And so the days passed rapidly away until it was nearly Christmas time,
and now, in spite of Jack's earnings, the money was very low indeed in
the broken teapot.
One day, just before Christmas, a great wagon drove up to the door of
the little cottage, and in it was the stranger Jack had rescued from
the bog. The wagon was loaded with a store of good things which would
add to the comfort of the aged pair and their grandson, including
medicines for grandpa and rare teas for grandma, and a fine suit of
clothes for Jack, who was just then away at work in the wood.
When the stranger had brought all these things into the house, he asked
to see the old teapot. Trembling with the excitement of their good
fortune, Grandma Horner brought out the teapot, and the gentleman drew
a bag from beneath his coat and filled the pot to the brim with shining
gold pieces.
"If ever you need more," he said, "send to me, and you shall have all
you wish to make you comfortable."
Then he told her his name, and where he lived, so that she might find
him if need be, and then he drove away in the empty wagon before
Grandma Horner had half finished thanking him.
You can imagine how astonished and happy little Jack was when he
returned from his work and found all the good things his kind
benefactor had brought. Grandma Horner was herself so delighted that
she caught the boy in her arms, and hugged and kissed him, declaring
that his brave rescue of the gentleman had brought them all this
happiness in their hour of need.
"To-morrow is Christmas," she said, "and we shall have an abundance
with which to celebrate the good day. So I shall make you a Christmas
pie, Jack dear, and stuff it full of plums, for you must have your
share of our unexpected prosperity."
And Grandma Horner was as good as her word, and made a very delicious
pie indeed for her darling grandson.
And this was how it came that
"Little Jack Horner sat in a corner
Eating a Christmas pie;
He put in his thumb and pulled out a plum,
And said, 'What a good boy am I!'"
And he was--a very good boy. Don't you think so?
[Illustration: The Man in the Moon]
The Man in the Moon
The Man in the Moon came tumbling down,
And enquired the way to Norwich;
He went by the south and burned his mouth
With eating cold pease porridge!
WHAT! have you never heard the story of the Man in the Moon? Then I
must surely tell it, for it is very amusing, and there is not a word of
truth in it.
The Man in the Moon was rather lonesome, and often he peeked over
the edge of the moon and looked down upon the earth and envied all
the people who lived together, for he thought it must be vastly more
pleasant to have companions to talk to than to be shut up in a big
planet all by himself, where he had to whistle to keep himself company.
One day he looked down and saw an alderman sailing up through the air
towards him. This alderman was being translated (instead of being
transported, owing to a misprint in the law) and as he came near the
Man in the Moon called to him and said,
"How is everything down on the earth?"
"Everything is lovely," replied the alderman, "and I wouldn't leave it
if I was not obliged to."
"What's a good place to visit down there? enquired the Man in the Moon.
"Oh, Norwich is a mighty fine place," returned the alderman, "and it's
famous for its pease porridge;" and then he sailed out of sight and
left the Man in the Moon to reflect upon what he had said.
The words of the alderman made him more anxious than ever to visit the
earth, and so he walked thoughtfully home, and put a few lumps of ice
in the stove to keep him warm, and sat down to think how he should
manage the trip.
You see, everything went by contraries in the Moon, and when the Man
wished to keep warm he knocked off a few chunks of ice and put them in
his stove; and he cooled his drinking water by throwing red-hot coals
of fire into the pitcher. Likewise, when he became chilly he took off
his hat and coat, and even his shoes, and so became warm; and in the
hot days of summer he put on his overcoat to cool off.
All of which seems very queer to you, no doubt; but it wasn't at all
queer to the Man in the Moon, for he was accustomed to it.
Well, he sat by his ice-cool fire and thought about his journey to the
earth, and finally he decided the only way he could get there was to
slide down a moonbeam.
So he left the house and locked the door and put the key in his pocket,
for he was uncertain how long he should be gone; and then he went to
the edge of the moon and began to search for a good strong moonbeam.
At last he found one that seemed rather substantial and reached right
down to a pleasant-looking spot on the earth; and so he swung himself
over the edge of the moon, and put both arms tight around the moonbeam
and started to slide down. But he found it rather slippery, and in
spite of all his efforts to hold on he found himself going faster and
faster, so that just before he reached the earth he lost his hold and
came tumbling down head over heels and fell plump into a river.
The cool water nearly scalded him before he could swim out, but
fortunately he was near the bank and he quickly scrambled upon the land
and sat down to catch his breath.
By that time it was morning, and as the sun rose its hot rays cooled
him off somewhat, so that he began looking about curiously at all the
strange sights and wondering where on earth he was.
By and by a farmer came along the road by the river with a team of
horses drawing a load of hay, and the horses looked so odd to the Man
in the Moon that at first he was greatly frightened, never before
having seen horses except from his home in the moon, from whence they
looked a good deal smaller. But he plucked up courage and said to the
farmer,
"Can you tell me the way to Norwich, sir?"
"Norwich?" repeated the farmer musingly; "I don't know exactly where
it be, sir, but it's somewhere away to the south."
[Illustration: The Man in the Moon]
"Thank you," said the Man in the Moon.--But stop! I must not call him
the Man in the Moon any longer, for of course he was now _out_ of the
moon; so I'll simply call him the Man, and you'll know by that which
man I mean.
Well, the Man in the--I mean the Man (but I nearly forgot what I have
just said)--the Man turned to the south and began walking briskly along
the road, for he had made up his mind to do as the alderman had advised
and travel to Norwich, that he might eat some of the famous pease
porridge that was made there. And finally, after a long and tiresome
journey, he reached the town and stopped at one of the first houses he
came to, for by this time he was very hungry indeed.
A good-looking woman answered his knock at the door, and he asked
politely,
"Is this the town of Norwich, madam?"
"Surely this is the town of Norwich," returned the woman.
"I came here to see if I could get some pease porridge," continued the
Man, "for I hear you make the nicest porridge in the world in this
town."
"That we do, sir," answered the woman, "and if you'll step inside I'll
give you a bowl, for I have plenty in the house that is newly made."
So he thanked her and entered the house, and she asked,
"Will you have it hot or cold, sir?"
"Oh, cold, by all means," replied the Man, "for I detest anything hot
to eat."
She soon brought him a bowl of cold pease porridge, and the Man was so
hungry that he took a big spoonful at once.
But no sooner had he put it into his mouth than he uttered a great
yell, and began dancing frantically about the room, for of course
the porridge that was cold to earth folk was hot to him, and the big
spoonful of cold pease porridge had burned his mouth to a blister!
"What's the matter?" asked the woman.
"Matter!" screamed the Man; "why, your porridge is so hot it has burned
me."
"Fiddlesticks!" she replied, "the porridge is quite cold."
"Try it yourself!" he cried. So she tried it and found it very cold and
pleasant. But the Man was so astonished to see her eat the porridge
that had blistered his own mouth that he became frightened and ran out
of the house and down the street as fast as he could go.
The policeman on the first corner saw him running, and promptly
arrested him, and he was marched off to the magistrate for trial.
"What is your name?" asked the magistrate.
"I haven't any," replied the Man; for of course as he was the only Man
in the Moon it wasn't necessary he should have a name.
"Come, come, no nonsense!" said the magistrate, "you must have some
name. Who are you?"
"Why, I'm the Man in the Moon."
"That's rubbish!" said the magistrate, eyeing the prisoner severely,
"you may be a man, but you're not in the moon--you're in Norwich."
"That is true," answered the Man, who was quite bewildered by this idea.
"And of course you must be called something," continued the magistrate.
"Well, then," said the prisoner, "if I'm not the Man in the Moon I must
be the Man out of the Moon; so call me that."
"Very good," replied the judge; "now, then, where did you come from?"
"The moon."
"Oh, you did, eh? How did you get here?"
"I slid down a moonbeam."
"Indeed! Well, what were you running for?"
"A woman gave me some cold pease porridge, and it burned my mouth."
The magistrate looked at him a moment in surprise, and then he said,
"This person is evidently crazy; so take him to the lunatic asylum and
keep him there."
This would surely have been the fate of the Man had there not been
present an old astronomer who had often looked at the moon through
his telescope, and so had discovered that what was hot on earth was
cold in the moon, and what was cold here was hot there; so he began to
think the Man had told the truth. Therefore he begged the magistrate
to wait a few minutes while he looked through his telescope to see if
the Man in the Moon was there. So, as it was now night, he fetched his
telescope and looked at the Moon,--and found there was no man in it at
all!
"It seems to be true," said the astronomer, "that the Man has got out
of the Moon somehow or other. Let me look at your mouth, sir, and see
if it is really burned."
Then the Man opened his mouth, and everyone saw plainly it was burned
to a blister! Thereupon the magistrate begged his pardon for doubting
his word, and asked him what he would like to do next.
"I'd like to get back to the Moon," said the Man, "for I don't like
this earth of yours at all. The nights are too hot."
"Why, it's quite cool this evening!" said the magistrate.
"I'll tell you what we can do," remarked the astronomer; "there's a big
balloon in town which belongs to the circus that came here last summer,
and was pawned for a board bill. We can inflate this balloon and send
the Man out of the Moon home in it."
"That's a good idea," replied the judge. So the balloon was brought
and inflated, and the Man got into the basket and gave the word to let
go, and then the balloon mounted up into the sky in the direction of
the moon.
The good people of Norwich stood on the earth and tipped back their
heads, and watched the balloon go higher and higher, until finally the
Man reached out and caught hold of the edge of the moon, and behold!
the next minute he was the Man in the Moon again!
After this adventure he was well contented to stay at home; and I've no
doubt if you look through a telescope you will see him there to this
day.
[Illustration: The Jolly Miller]
The Jolly Miller
There was a jolly miller
Lived on the river Dee;
He sang and worked from morn till night,
No lark so blithe as he.
And this the burden of his song
Forever seemed to be:
I care for nobody, no! not I,
Since nobody cares for me.
"CREE-E-EEKETY-CRUCK-CRICK! cree-e-eekety-cruck-crick!" sang out the
big wheel of the mill upon the river Dee, for it was old and ricketty
and had worked many years grinding corn for the miller; so from morning
till night it creaked and growled and complained as if rebelling
against the work it must do. And the country people, at work in the
fields far away, would raise their heads when the soft summer breezes
wafted the sound of the wheel to their ears and say,
"The jolly miller is grinding his corn." And again, at the times when
the mill was shut down and no sound of the wheel reached them, they
said to one another,
"The jolly miller has no corn to grind to-day," or, "The miller is
oiling the great wheel." But they would miss the creaking, monotonous
noise, and feel more content when the mill started again and made music
for them as they worked.
But no one came to the mill unless they brought corn to grind, for the
miller was a queer man, and liked to be alone. When people passed by
the mill and saw the miller at his work, they only nodded their heads,
for they knew he would not reply if they spoke to him.
He was not an old man, nor a sour man, nor a bad man; on the contrary
he could be heard singing at his work most of the time. But the words
of his song would alone have kept people away from him, for they were
always these:
"I care for nobody, no! not I,
Since nobody cares for me."
He lived all alone in the mill-house, cooking his own meals and making
his own bed, and neither asking nor receiving help from anyone. It
is very certain that if the jolly miller had cared to have friends
many would have visited him, since the country people were sociable
enough in their way; but it was the miller himself who refused to make
friends, and old Farmer Dobson used to say,
"The reason nobody cares for the miller is because he won't let them.
It is the fault of the man himself, not the fault of the people!"
However this may have been, it is true the miller had no friends, and
equally sure that he cared to have none, for it did not make him a bit
unhappy.
Sometimes, indeed, as he sat at evening in the doorway of the mill and
watched the moon rise in the sky, he grew a bit lonely and thoughtful,
and found himself longing for some one to love and cherish, for this is
the nature of all good men. But when he realized how his thoughts were
straying he began to sing again, and he drove away all such hopeless
longings.
At last a change came over the miller's life. He was standing one
evening beside the river, watching the moonbeams play upon the water,
when something came floating down the stream that attracted his
attention. For a long time he could not tell what it was, but it looked
to him like a big black box; so he got a long pole and reached it out
towards the box and managed to draw it within reach just above the big
wheel. It was fortunate he saved it when he did, for in another moment
it would have gone over the wheel and been dashed to pieces far below.
When the miller had pulled the floating object upon the bank he found
it really was a box, the lid being fastened tight with a strong cord.
So he lifted it carefully and carried it into the mill-house, and then
he placed it upon the floor while he lighted a candle. Then he cut
the cord and opened the box, and behold! a little babe lay within it,
sweetly sleeping upon a pillow of down.
The miller was so surprised that he stopped singing and gazed with big
eyes at the beautiful face of the little stranger. And while he gazed
its eyes opened--two beautiful, pleading blue eyes,--and the little one
smiled and stretched out her arms toward him.
"Well, well!" said the miller, "where on earth did you come from?"
The baby did not reply, but she tried to, and made some soft little
noises that sounded like the cooing of a pigeon.
The tiny arms were still stretched upwards, and the miller bent down
and tenderly lifted the child from the box and placed her upon his
knee, and then he began to stroke the soft, silken ringlets that
clustered around her head, and to look upon her wonderingly. The baby
leaned against his breast and fell asleep again, and the miller became
greatly troubled, for he was unused to babies and did not know how to
handle them or care for them. But he sat very still until the little
one awoke, and then, thinking it must be hungry, he brought some sweet
milk and fed her with a spoon.
The baby smiled at him and ate the milk as if it liked it, and then one
little dimpled hand caught hold of the miller's whiskers and pulled
sturdily, while the baby jumped its little body up and down and cooed
its delight.
Do you think the miller was angry? Not a bit of it! He smiled back
into the laughing face and let her pull his whiskers as much as she
liked. For his whole heart had gone out to this little waif that he
had rescued from the river, and at last the solitary man had found
something to love.
The baby slept that night in the miller's own bed, snugly tucked in
beside the miller himself; and in the morning he fed her milk again,
and then went out to his work singing more merrily than ever.
Every few minutes he would put his head into the room where he had left
the child, to see if it wanted anything, and if it cried even the least
bit he would run in and take it in his arms and soothe the little girl
until she smiled again.
That first day the miller was fearful some one would come and claim the
child, but when evening came without the arrival of any stranger he
decided the baby had been cast adrift and now belonged to nobody but
him.
"I shall keep her as long as I live," he thought, "and never will we be
separated for even a day. For now that I have found some one to love I
could not bear to let her go again."
He cared for the waif very tenderly; and as the child was strong and
healthy she was not much trouble to him, and to his delight grew bigger
day by day.
The country people were filled with surprise when they saw a child in
the mill-house, and wondered where it came from; but the miller would
answer no questions, and as year after year passed away they forgot to
enquire how the child came there and looked upon her as the miller's
own daughter.
She grew to be a sweet and pretty child, and was the miller's constant
companion. She called him "papa," and he called her Nathalie, because
he had found her upon the water, and the country people called her the
Maid of the Mill.
The miller worked harder than ever before, for now he had to feed and
clothe the little girl; and he sang from morn till night, so joyous was
he, and still his song was:
"I care for nobody, no! not I,
Since nobody cares for me."
One day, while he was singing this, he heard a sob beside him, and
looked down to see Nathalie weeping.
"What is it, my pet?" he asked, anxiously.
"Oh, papa," she answered, "why do you sing that nobody cares for you,
when you know I love you so dearly?"
The miller was surprised, for he had sung the song so long he had
forgotten what the words meant.
"Do you indeed love me, Nathalie?" he asked.
"Indeed, indeed! You know I do!" she replied.
"Then," said the miller, with a happy laugh, as he bent down and kissed
the tear-stained face, "I shall change my song."
And after that he sang:
"I love sweet Nathalie, that I do,
For Nathalie she loves me."
The years passed by and the miller was very happy. Nathalie grew to
be a sweet and lovely maiden, and she learned to cook the meals and
tend the house, and that made it easier for the miller, for now he was
growing old.
One day the young Squire, who lived at the great house on the hill,
came past the mill and saw Nathalie sitting in the doorway, her pretty
form framed in the flowers that climbed around and over the door.
And the Squire loved her after that first glance, for he saw that she
was as good and innocent as she was beautiful. The miller, hearing the
sound of voices, came out and saw them together, and at once he became
very angry, for he knew that trouble was in store for him, and he must
guard his treasure very carefully if he wished to keep her with him.
The young Squire begged very hard to be allowed to pay court to the
Maid of the Mill, but the miller ordered him away, and he was forced to
go. Then the miller saw there were tears in Nathalie's eyes, and that
made him still more anxious, for he feared the mischief was already
done.
Indeed, in spite of the miller's watchfulness, the Squire and Nathalie
often met and walked together in the shady lanes or upon the green
banks of the river. It was not long before they learned to love one
another very dearly, and one day they went hand in hand to the miller
and asked his consent that they should wed.
"What will become of me?" asked the miller, with a sad heart.
"You shall live in the great house with us," replied the Squire, "and
never again need you labor for bread."
But the old man shook his head.
"A miller I have lived," quoth he, "and a miller will I die. But tell
me, Nathalie, are you willing to leave me?"
The girl cast down her eyes and blushed sweetly.
"I love him," she whispered, "and if you separate us I shall die."
"Then," said the miller, kissing her with a heavy heart, "go; and may
God bless you!"
So Nathalie and the Squire were wed, and lived in the great house, and
the very day after the wedding she came walking down to the mill in her
pretty new gown to see the miller.
But as she drew near she heard him singing, as was his wont; and the
song he sung she had not heard since she was a little girl, for this
was it:
"I care for nobody, no! not I,
Since nobody cares for me."
She came up softly behind him, and put her arms around his neck.
"Papa," said she, "you must not sing that song. Nathalie loves you yet,
and always will while she lives; for my new love is complete in itself,
and has not robbed you of one bit of the love that has always been your
very own."
The miller turned and looked into her blue eyes, and knew that she
spoke truly.
"Then I must learn a new song again," he said, "for it is lonely at
the mill, and singing makes the heart lighter. But I will promise that
never again, till you forget me, will I sing that nobody cares for me."
And the miller did learn a new song, and sang it right merrily for many
years; for each day Nathalie came down to the mill to show that she had
not forgotten him.
[Illustration: The Little Man and His Little Gun]
The Little Man and His Little Gun
There was a little man and he had a little gun,
And the bullets were made of lead, lead, lead.
He went to the brook and shot a little duck,
And the bullet went right through its head, head, head.
THERE was once a little man named Jimson, who had stopped growing when
he was a boy, and never started again. So, although he was old enough
to be a man he was hardly big enough, and had he not owned a bald head
and gray whiskers you would certainly have taken him for a boy whenever
you saw him.
This little man was very sorry he was not bigger, and if you wanted to
make him angry you had but to call attention to his size. He dressed
just as big men do, and wore a silk hat and a long-tailed coat when
he went to church, and a cap and top-boots when he rode horseback. He
walked with a little cane and had a little umbrella made to carry when
it rained. In fact, whatever other men did this little man was anxious
to do also, and so it happened that when the hunting season came
around, and all the men began to get their guns ready to hunt for snipe
and duck, Mr. Jimson also had a little gun made, and determined to use
it as well as any of them.
When he brought it home and showed it to his wife, who was a very big
woman, she said,
"Jimson, you'd better use bullets made of bread, and then you won't
hurt anything."
"Nonsense, Joan," replied the little man, "I shall have bullets made
of lead, just as other men do, and every duck I see I shall shoot and
bring home to you."
"I'm afraid you won't kill many," said Joan.
But the little man believed he could shoot with the best of them, so
the next morning he got up early and took his little gun and started
down to the brook to hunt for duck.
It was scarcely daybreak when he arrived at the brook, and the sun
had not yet peeped over the eastern hill-tops, but no duck appeared
anywhere in sight, although Mr. Jimson knew this was the right time
of day for shooting them. So he sat down beside the brook and begun
watching, and before he knew it he had fallen fast asleep.
By and by he was awakened by a peculiar noise.
"Quack, quack, quack!" sounded in his ears; and looking up he saw a
pretty little duck swimming in the brook and popping its head under
the water in search of something to eat. The duck belonged to Johnny
Sprigg, who lived a little way down the brook, but the little man
did not know this. He thought it was a wild duck, so he stood up and
carefully took aim.
"I'm afraid I can't hit it from here," he thought, "so I'll just step
upon that big stone in the brook, and shoot from there."
So he stepped out upon the stone, and took aim at the duck again, and
fired the gun.
The next minute the little man had tumbled head over heels into the
water, and he nearly drowned before he could scramble out again; for,
not being used to shooting, the gun had kicked, or recoiled, and had
knocked him off the round stone where he had been standing.
When he had succeeded in reaching the bank he was overjoyed to see that
he had shot the duck, which lay dead upon the water a short distance
away. The little man got a long stick, and, reaching it out, drew the
dead duck to the bank. Then he started joyfully homeward to show the
prize to his wife.
"There, Joan," he said, as he entered the house, "is a nice little duck
for our dinner. Do you now think your husband cannot shoot?"
"But there's only one duck," remarked his wife, "and it's very small.
Can't you go and shoot another? Then we shall have enough for dinner."
"Yes, of course I can shoot another," said the little man, proudly;
"you make a fire and get the pot boiling, and I'll go for another duck."
"You'd better shoot a drake this time," said Joan, "for drakes are
bigger."
She started to make the fire, and the little man took his gun and went
to the brook; but not a duck did he see, nor drake neither, and so he
was forced to come home without any game.
"There's no use cooking one duck," said his wife, "so we'll have pork
and beans for dinner and I'll hang the little duck in the shed. Perhaps
you'll be able to shoot a drake to-morrow, and then we'll cook them
both together."
So they had pork and beans, to the great disappointment of Mr. Jimson,
who had expected to eat duck instead; and after dinner the little man
lay down to take a nap while his wife went out to tell the neighbors
what a great hunter he was.
The news spread rapidly through the town, and when the evening paper
came out the little man was very angry to see this verse printed in it:
There was a little man and he had a little gun,
And the bullets were made of lead, lead, lead.
He went to the brook and shot a little duck,
And the bullet went right through its head, head, head.
He carried it home to his good wife Joan,
And bade her a fire to make, make, make,
While he went to the brook where he shot the little duck,
And tried for to shoot the drake, drake, drake.
"There's no use putting it into the paper," exclaimed the little man,
much provoked, "and Mr. Brayer, the editor, is probably jealous because
he himself cannot shoot a gun. Perhaps people think I cannot shoot a
drake, but I'll show them to-morrow that I can!"
So the next morning he got up early again, and took his gun, and
loaded it with bullets made of lead. Then he said to his wife,
"What does a drake look like, my love?"
"Why," she replied, "it's much like a duck, only it has a curl on its
tail and red on its wing."
"All right," he answered, "I'll bring you home a drake in a short time,
and to-day we shall have something better for dinner than pork and
beans."
When he got to the brook there was nothing in sight, so he sat down on
the bank to watch, and again fell fast asleep.
Now Johnny Sprigg had missed his little duck, and knew some one had
shot it; so he thought this morning he would go the brook and watch for
the man who had killed the duck, and make him pay a good price for it.
Johnny was a big man, whose head was very bald; therefore he wore a red
curly wig to cover his baldness and make him look younger.
When he got to the brook he saw no one about, and so he hid in a clump
of bushes. After a time the little man woke up, and in looking around
for the drake he saw Johnny's red wig sticking out of the top of the
bushes.
"That is surely the drake," he thought, "for I can see a curl and
something red;" and the next minute "bang!" went the gun, and Johnny
Sprigg gave a great yell and jumped out of the bushes. As for his
beautiful wig, it was shot right off his head, and fell into the water
of the brook a good ten yards away!
"What are you trying to do?" he cried, shaking his fist at the little
man.
"Why, I was only shooting at the drake," replied Jimson; "and I hit it,
too, for there it is in the water."
"That's my wig, sir!" said Johnny Sprigg, "and you shall pay for it,
or I'll have the law on you. Are you the man who shot the duck here
yesterday morning?"
"I am, sir," answered the little man, proud that he had shot something
besides a wig.
"Well, you shall pay for that also," said Mr. Sprigg; "for it belonged
to me, and I'll have the money or I'll put you in jail!"
The little man did not want to go to jail, so with a heavy heart he
paid for the wig and the duck, and then took his way sorrowfully
homeward.
He did not tell Joan of his meeting with Mr. Sprigg; he only said he
could not find a drake. But she knew all about it when the paper came
out, for this is what it said on the front page:
There was a little man and he had a little gun,
And the bullets were made of lead, lead, lead.
He shot Johnny Sprigg through the middle of his wig,
And knocked it right off from his head, head, head.
The little man was so angry at this, and at the laughter of all the men
he met, that he traded his gun off for a lawn-mower, and resolved never
to go hunting again.
He had the little duck he had shot made into a pie, and he and Joan ate
it; but he did not enjoy it very much.
"This duck cost me twelve dollars," he said to his loving wife, "for
that is the sum Johnny Sprigg made me pay; and it's a very high price
for one little duck--don't you think so, Joan?"
[Illustration: Hickory, Dickory, Dock]
Hickory, Dickory, Dock
Hickory, Dickory, Dock!
The mouse ran up the clock.
The clock struck one,
The mouse ran down,
Hickory, Dickory, Dock!
WITHIN the hollow wall of an old brick mansion, away up near the roof,
there lived a family of mice. It was a snug little home, pleasant
and quiet, and as dark as any mouse could desire. Mamma Mouse liked it
because, as she said, the draught that came through the rafters made it
cool in summer, and they were near enough to the chimney to keep warm
in winter-time.
Besides the Mamma Mouse there were three children, named Hickory and
Dickory and Dock. There had once been a Papa Mouse as well; but while
he was hunting for food one night he saw a nice piece of cheese in a
wire box, and attempted to get it. The minute he stuck his head into
the box, however, it closed with a snap that nearly cut his head off,
and when Mamma Mouse came down to look for him he was quite dead.
Mamma Mouse had to bear her bitter sorrow all alone, for the children
were too young at that time to appreciate their loss. She felt that
people were very cruel to kill a poor mouse for wishing to get food for
himself and his family. There is nothing else for a mouse to do but
take what he can find, for mice cannot earn money, as people do, and
they must live in some way.
But Mamma Mouse was a brave mouse, and knew that it was now her duty to
find food for her little ones; so she dried her eyes and went bravely
to work gnawing through the base-board that separated the pantry from
the wall. It took her some time to do this, for she could only work
at night. Mice like to sleep during the day and work at night, when
there are no people around to interrupt them, and even the cat is fast
asleep. Some mice run about in the day-time, but they are not very wise
mice who do this.
At last Mamma Mouse gnawed a hole through the base-board large enough
for her to get through into the pantry, and then her disappointment was
great to find the bread jar covered over with a tin pan.
"How thoughtless people are to put things where a hungry mouse cannot
get at them," said Mamma Mouse to herself, with a sigh. But just then
she espied a barrel of flour standing upon the floor; and that gave her
new courage, for she knew she could easily gnaw through that, and the
flour would do to eat just as well as the bread.
It was now nearly daylight, so she decided to leave the attack upon the
flour barrel until the next night; and gathering up for the children
a few crumbs that were scattered about, she ran back into the wall and
scrambled up to her nest.
Hickory and Dickory and Dock were very glad to get the crumbs, for they
were hungry; and when they had breakfasted they all curled up alongside
their mother and slept soundly throughout the day.
"Be good children," said Mamma Mouse the next evening, as she prepared
for her journey to the pantry, "and don't stir out of your nest till I
come back. I am in hopes that after to-night we shall not be hungry for
a long time, as I shall gnaw a hole at the back of the flour barrel,
where it will not be discovered."
She kissed each one of them good-bye and ran down the wall on her
errand.
When they were left alone Hickory wanted to go to sleep again, but
little Dock was wide awake, and tumbled around so in the nest that his
brothers were unable to sleep.
"I wish I could go with mother some night," said Dock, "it's no fun to
stay here all the time."
"She will take us when we are big enough," replied Dickory.
"We are big enough now," declared Dock, "and if I knew my way I would
go out into the world and see what it looks like."
"I know a way out," said Hickory, "but mamma wouldn't like it if we
should go without her permission."
"She needn't know anything about it," declared the naughty Dock, "for
she will be busy at the flour-barrel all the night. Take us out for a
little walk, Hick, if you know the way."
"Yes do," urged Dickory.
"Well," said Hickory, "I'd like a little stroll myself, so if you'll
promise to be very careful, and not get into any mischief, I'll take
you through the hole that I have discovered."
So the three little mice started off, with Hickory showing the way, and
soon came to a crack in the wall. Hickory stuck his head through, and
finding everything quiet, for the family of people that lived in the
house were fast asleep, he squeezed through the crack, followed by his
two brothers. Their little hearts beat very fast, for they knew if they
were discovered they would have to run for their lives; but the house
was so still they gained courage, and crept along over a thick carpet
until they came to a stairway.
"What shall we do now?" whispered Hickory to his brothers.
"Let's go down," replied Dock.
So, very carefully, they descended the stairs and reached the hallway
of the house, and here they were much surprised by all they saw.
There was a big rack for hats and coats, and an umbrella stand, and two
quaintly carved chairs, and, most wonderful of all, a tall clock that
stood upon the floor and ticked out the minutes in a grave and solemn
voice.
When the little mice first heard the ticking of the clock they were
inclined to be frightened, and huddled close together upon the bottom
stair.
"What is it?" asked Dickory, in an awed whisper.
"I don't know," replied Hickory, who was himself rather afraid.
"Is it alive?" asked Dock.
"I don't know," again answered Hickory.
Then, seeing that the clock paid no attention to them, but kept ticking
steadily away and seemed to mind its own business, they plucked up
courage and began running about.
Presently Dickory uttered a delighted squeal that brought his brothers
to his side. There in a corner lay nearly the half of a bun which
little May had dropped when nurse carried her upstairs to bed. It was
a great discovery for the three mice, and they ate heartily until the
last crumb had disappeared.
"This is better than a cupboard or a pantry," said Dock, when they had
finished their supper, "and I shouldn't be surprised if there were
plenty more good things around if we only hunt for them."
But they could find nothing more, for all the doors leading into the
hall were closed, and at last Dock came to the clock and looked at it
curiously.
"It doesn't seem to be alive," he thought, "although it does make so
much noise. I'm going behind it to see what I can find."
He found nothing except a hole that led to the inside of the clock, and
into this he stuck his head. He could hear the ticking plainer than
ever now, but looking way up to the top of the clock he saw something
shining brightly, and thought it must be good to eat if he could only
get at it. Without saying anything to his brothers, Dock ran up the
sides of the clock until he came to the works, and he was just about to
nibble at a glistening wheel, to see what it tasted like, when suddenly
"Bang!" went the clock.
It was one o'clock, and the clock had only struck the hour, but the
great gong was just beside Dock's ear and the noise nearly deafened the
poor little mouse. He gave a scream of terror and ran down the clock
as fast as he could go. When he reached the hall he heard his brothers
scampering up the stairs, and after them he ran with all his might.
It was only when they were safe in their nest again that they stopped
to breathe, and their little hearts beat fast for an hour afterward, so
great had been their terror.
When Mamma Mouse came back in the morning, bringing a quantity of nice
flour with her for breakfast, they told her of their adventure.
She thought they had been punished enough already for their
disobedience, so she did not scold them, but only said,
"You see, my dears, your mother knew best when she told you not to
stir from the nest. Children sometimes think they know more than their
parents, but this adventure should teach you always to obey your
mother. The next time you run away you may fare worse than you did last
night; remember your poor father's fate."
But Hickory and Dickory and Dock did not run away again.
[Illustration: Little Bo-Peep]
Little Bo-Peep
On the beautiful, undulating hills of Sussex feed many flocks of sheep,
which are tended by many shepherds and shepherdesses, and one of these
flocks used to be cared for by a poor woman who supported herself and
her little girl by this means.
They lived in a small cottage nestled at the foot of one of the hills,
and each morning the mother took her crook and started out with her
sheep, that they might feed upon the tender, juicy grasses with which
the hills abounded. The little girl usually accompanied her mother
and sat by her side upon the grassy mounds and watched her care for
the ewes and lambs, so that in time she herself grew to be a very
proficient shepherdess.
So when the mother became too old and feeble to leave her cottage,
Little Bo-Peep (as she was called) decided that she was fully able
to manage the flocks herself. She was a little mite of a child, with
flowing nut-brown locks and big gray eyes that charmed all who gazed
into their innocent depths. She wore a light gray frock, fastened about
the waist with a pretty pink sash, and there were white ruffles around
her neck and pink ribbons in her hair.
All the shepherds and shepherdesses upon the hills, both young and old,
soon came to know Little Bo-Peep very well indeed, and there were many
willing hands to aid her if (which was not often) she needed their
assistance.
Bo-Peep usually took her sheep to the side of a high hill above the
cottage, and allowed them to eat the rich grass while she herself sat
upon a mound and, laying aside her crook and her broad straw hat with
its pink ribbons, devoted her time to sewing and mending stockings for
her aged mother.
One day, while thus occupied, she heard a voice beside her say:
"Good morning, Little Bo-Peep!" and looking up the girl saw a woman
standing near her and leaning upon a short stick. She was bent nearly
double by weight of many years, her hair was white as snow and her
eyes as black as coals. Deep wrinkles seamed her face and hands, while
her nose and chin were so pointed that they nearly met. She was not
pleasant to look upon, but Bo-Peep had learned to be polite to the
aged, so she answered, sweetly,
"Good morning, mother. Can I do anything for you?"
"No, dearie," returned the woman, in a cracked voice, "but I will sit
by your side and rest for a time."
The girl made room on the mound beside her, and the stranger sat down
and watched in silence the busy fingers sew up the seams of the new
frock she was making.
By and by the woman asked,
"Why do you come out here to sew?"
"Because I am a shepherdess," replied the girl.
"But where is your crook?"
"On the grass beside me."
"And where are your sheep?"
Bo-Peep looked up and could not see them.
"They must have strayed over the top of the hill," she said, "and I
will go and seek them."
"Do not be in a hurry," croaked the old woman; "they will return
presently without your troubling to find them."
"Do you think so?" asked Bo-Peep.
"Of course; do not the sheep know you?"
"Oh, yes; they know me every one."
"And do not you know the sheep?"
"I can call every one by name," said Bo-Peep, confidently; "for though
I am so young a shepherdess I am fond of my sheep and know all about
them."
The old woman chuckled softly, as if the answer amused her, and replied,
"No one knows all about anything, my dear."
"But I know all about my sheep," protested Little Bo-Peep.
"Do you, indeed? Then you are wiser that most people. And if you know
all about them, you also know they will come home of their own accord,
and I have no doubt they will all be wagging their tails behind them,
as usual."
"Oh," said Little Bo-Peep, in surprise, "do they wag their tails? I
never noticed that!"
"Indeed!" exclaimed the old woman, "then you are not very observing for
one who knows all about sheep. Perhaps you have never noticed their
tails at all."
"No," answered Bo-Peep, thoughtfully, "I don't know that I ever have."
The woman laughed so hard at this reply that she began to cough, and
this made the girl remember that her flock had strayed away.
"I really must go and find my sheep," she said, rising to her feet,
"and then I shall be sure to notice their tails, and see if they wag
them."
"Sit still, my child," said the old woman, "I am going over the
hill-top myself, and I will send the sheep back to you."
So she got upon her feet and began climbing the hill, and the girl
heard her saying, as she walked away,
"Little Bo-Peep has lost her sheep,
And doesn't know where to find 'em.
But leave 'em alone, and they'll come home,
All wagging their tails behind 'em."
Little Bo-Peep sat still and watched the old woman toil slowly up the
hill-side and disappear over the top. By and by she thought, "very soon
I shall see the sheep coming back;" but time passed away and still the
errant flock failed to make its appearance.
Soon the head of the little shepherdess began to nod, and presently,
still thinking of her sheep,
Little Bo-Peep fell fast asleep,
And dreamt she heard them bleating;
But when she awoke she found it a joke,
For still they were a-fleeting.
The girl now became quite anxious, and wondered why the old woman
had not driven her flock over the hill. But as it was now time for
luncheon she opened her little basket and ate of the bread and cheese
and cookies she had brought with her. After she had finished her meal
and taken a drink of cool water from a spring near by, she decided she
would not wait any longer.
So up she took her little crook,
Determined for to find them,
and began climbing the hill.
When she got to the top there was never a sight of sheep about--only a
green valley and another hill beyond.
Now really alarmed for the safety of her charge, Bo-Peep hurried into
the valley and up the farther hill-side. Panting and tired she reached
the summit, and, pausing breathlessly, gazed below her.
Quietly feeding upon the rich grass was her truant flock, looking as
peaceful and innocent as if it had never strayed away from its gentle
shepherdess.
[Illustration: Little Bo-Peep]
Bo-Peep uttered a cry of joy and hurried toward them; but when she
came near she stopped in amazement and held up her little hands with a
pretty expression of dismay. She had
Found them, indeed, but it made her heart bleed,
For they'd left their tails behind them!
Nothing was left to each sheep but a wee little stump where a tail
should be, and Little Bo-Peep was so heart-broken that she sat down
beside them and sobbed bitterly.
But after awhile the tiny maid realized that all her tears would not
bring back the tails to her lambkins; so she plucked up courage and
dried her eyes and arose from the ground just as the old woman hobbled
up to her.
"So you have found your sheep, dearie," she said, in her cracked voice.
"Yes," replied Little Bo-Peep, with difficulty repressing a sob; "but
look, mother! They've all left their tails behind them!"
"Why, so they have!" exclaimed the old woman; and then she began to
laugh as if something pleased her.
"What do you suppose has become of their tails?" asked the girl.
"Oh, some one has probably cut them off. They make nice tippets in
winter-time, you know;" and then she patted the child upon her head and
walked away down the valley.
Bo-Peep was much grieved over the loss that had befallen her dear
sheep, and so, driving them before her, she wandered around to see if
by any chance she could find the lost tails.
But soon the sun began to sink over the hill-tops, and she knew she
must take her sheep home before night overtook them.
She did not tell her mother of her misfortune, for she feared the old
shepherdess would scold her, and Bo-Peep had fully decided to seek for
the tails and find them before she related the story of their loss to
any one.
Each day for many days after that Little Bo-Peep wandered about the
hills seeking the tails of her sheep, and those who met her wondered
what had happened to make the sweet little maid so anxious. But there
is an end to all troubles, no matter how severe they may seem to be, and
It happened one day, as Bo-Peep did stray
Unto a meadow hard by,
There she espied their tails side by side,
All hung on a tree to dry!
The little shepherdess was overjoyed at this discovery, and, reaching
up her crook, she knocked the row of pretty white tails off the tree
and gathered them up in her frock. But how to fasten them onto her
sheep again was the question, and after pondering the matter for a time
she became discouraged, and, thinking she was no better off than before
the tails were found, she began to weep and to bewail her misfortune.
But amidst her tears she bethought herself of her needle and thread.
"Why," she exclaimed, smiling again, "I can sew them on, of course!"
Then
She heaved a sigh and wiped her eye
And ran o'er hill and dale, oh,
And tried what she could
As a shepherdess should,
To tack to each sheep its tail, oh.
But the very first sheep she came to refused to allow her to sew on
the tail, and ran away from her, and the others did the same, so that
finally she was utterly discouraged.
She was beginning to cry again, when the same old woman she had before
met came hobbling to her side and asked,
"What are you doing with my cat tails?"
"Your cat tails!" replied Bo-Peep, in surprise; "what do you mean?"
"Why, these tails are all cut from white pussy-cats, and I put them on
the tree to dry. What are you doing with them?"
"I thought they belonged to my sheep," answered Bo-Peep, sorrowfully;
"but if they are really your pussy-cat tails, I must hunt until I find
those that belong to my sheep."
"My dear," said the old woman, "I have been deceiving you; you said
you knew all about your sheep, and I wanted to teach you a lesson.
For, however wise we may be, no one in this world knows _all_ about
anything. Sheep do not have long tails--there is only a little stump to
answer for a tail. Neither do rabbits have tails, nor bears, nor many
other animals. And if you had been observing you would have known all
this when I said the sheep would be wagging their tails behind them,
and then you would not have passed all those days in searching for what
is not to be found. So now, little one, run away home, and try to be
more thoughtful in the future. Your sheep will never miss the tails,
for they have never had them."
And now
Little Bo-Peep no more did weep;
My tale of tails ends here.
Each cat has one,
But sheep have none;
Which, after all, is queer!
[Illustration: The Story of Tommy Tucker]
The Story of Tommy Tucker
Little Tommy Tucker sang for his supper.
What did he sing for? white bread and butter.
How could he cut it, without any knife?
How could he marry, without any wife?
LITTLE TOMMY TUCKER was a waif of the streets. He never remembered
having a father or mother or any one to care for him, and so he learned
to care for himself. He ate whatever he could get, and slept wherever
night overtook him--in an old barrel, a cellar, or, when fortune
favored him, he paid a penny for a cot in some rude lodging-house.
His life about the streets taught him early how to earn a living by
doing odd jobs, and he learned to be sharp in his speech and wise
beyond his years.
One morning Tommy crawled out from a box in which he had slept over
night, and found that he was hungry. His last meal had consisted of a
crust of bread, and he was a growing boy with an appetite.
He had been unable to earn any money for several days, and this morning
life looked very gloomy to him. He started out to seek for work or to
beg a breakfast; but luck was against him, and he was unsuccessful.
By noon he had grown more hungry than before, and stood before a
bake-shop for a long time, looking wistfully at the good things behind
the window-panes, and wishing with all his heart he had a ha'penny to
buy a bun.
And yet it was no new thing for Little Tommy Tucker to be hungry, and
he never thought of despairing. He sat down upon a curb-stone, and
thought what was best to be done. Then he remembered he had frequently
begged a meal at one of the cottages that stood upon the outskirts of
the city, and so he turned his steps in that direction.
"I have had neither breakfast nor dinner," he said to himself, "and
I must surely find a supper somewhere, or I shall not sleep much
to-night. It is no fun to be hungry."
So he walked on until he came to a dwelling-house where a goodly
company sat upon a lawn and beneath a veranda. It was a pretty place,
and was the home of a fat alderman who had been married that very day.
The alderman was in a merry mood, and seeing Tommy standing without the
gate he cried to him,
"Come here, my lad, and sing us a song."
Tommy at once entered the grounds, and came to where the fat alderman
was sitting beside his blushing bride.
"Can you sing?" enquired the alderman.
"No," answered Tommy, earnestly, "but I can eat."
"Ho, ho!" laughed the alderman, "that is a very ordinary
accomplishment. Anyone can eat."
"If it please you, sir, you are wrong," replied Tommy, "for I have been
unable to eat all day."
"And why is that?" asked the alderman.
"Because I have had nothing to put to my mouth. But now that I have met
so kind a gentleman, I am sure that I shall have a good supper."
The alderman laughed again at this shrewd answer, and said,
"You shall have supper, no doubt; but you must sing a song for the
company first, and so earn your food."
Tommy shook his head sadly.
"I do not know any song, sir," he said.
The alderman called a servant and whispered something in his ear. The
servant hastened away, and soon returned bearing upon a tray a huge
slice of white bread and butter. White bread was a rare treat in those
days, as nearly all the people ate black bread baked from rye or barley
flour.
"Now," said the alderman, placing the tray beside him, "you shall have
this slice of white bread and butter when you have sung us a song, and
complied with one condition."
"And what is that condition?" asked Tommy.
"I will tell you when we have heard the song," replied the fat
alderman, who had decided to have some amusement at the boy's expense.
[Illustration: Tommy Tucker]
Tommy hesitated, but when he glanced at the white bread and butter his
mouth watered in spite of himself, and he resolved to compose a song,
since he did not know how to sing any other.
So he took off his cap, and standing before the company he sang as
follows:
"A bumble-bee lit on a hollyhock flower
That was wet with the rain of a morning shower.
While the honey he sipped
His left foot slipped,
And he couldn't fly again for half an hour!"
"Good!" cried the alderman, after the company had kindly applauded
Tommy. "I can't say much for the air, nor yet for the words; but it was
not so bad as it might have been. Give us another verse."
So Tommy pondered a moment, and then sang again:
"A spider threw its web so high
It caught on a moon in a cloudy sky.
The moon whirled round,
And down to the ground
Fell the web, and captured a big blue fly!"
"Why, that is fine!" roared the fat alderman. "You improve as you go
on, so give us another verse."
"I don't know any more," said Tommy, "and I am very hungry."
"One more verse," persisted the man, "and then you shall have the bread
and butter upon the condition."
So Tommy sang the following verse:
"A big frog lived in a slimy bog,
And caught a cold in an awful fog.
The cold got worse,
The frog got hoarse,
Till croaking he scared a polliwog!"
"You are quite a poet," declared the alderman; "and now you shall have
the white bread upon one condition."
"What is it?" said Tommy, anxiously.
"That you cut the slice into four parts."
"But I have no knife!" remonstrated the boy.
"But that is the condition," insisted the alderman. "If you want the
bread you must cut it."
"Surely you do not expect me to cut the bread without any knife!" said
Tommy.
"Why not?" asked the alderman, winking his eye at the company.
"Because it cannot be done. How, let me ask you, sir, could you have
married without any wife?"
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the jolly alderman; and he was so pleased with
Tommy's apt reply that he gave him the bread at once, and a knife to
cut it with.
"Thank you, sir," said Tommy; "now that I have the knife it is easy
enough to cut the bread, and I shall now be as happy as you are with
your beautiful wife."
The alderman's wife blushed at this, and whispered to her husband.
The alderman nodded in reply, and watched Tommy carefully as he ate
his supper. When the boy had finished his bread--which he did very
quickly, you may be sure,--the man said,
"How would you like to live with me and be my servant?"
Little Tommy Tucker had often longed for just such a place, where he
could have three meals each day to eat and a good bed to sleep in at
night, so he answered,
"I should like it very much, sir."
So the alderman took Tommy for his servant, and dressed him in a smart
livery; and soon the boy showed by his bright ways and obedience that
he was worthy any kindness bestowed upon him.
He often carried the alderman's wig when his master attended the town
meetings, and the mayor of the city, who was a good man, was much taken
with his intelligent face. So one day he said to the alderman,
"I have long wanted to adopt a son, for I have no children of my own;
but I have not yet been able to find a boy to suit me. That lad of
yours looks bright and intelligent, and he seems a well-behaved boy
into the bargain."
"He is all that you say," returned the alderman, "and would be a credit
to you should you adopt him."
"But before I adopt a son," continued the mayor, "I intend to satisfy
myself that he is both wise and shrewd enough to make good use of my
money when I am gone. No fool will serve my purpose; therefore I shall
test the boy's wit before I decide."
"That is fair enough," answered the alderman; "but in what way will you
test his wit?"
"Bring him to my house to-morrow, and you shall see," said the mayor.
So the next day the alderman, followed by Tommy and a little terrier
dog that was a great pet of his master, went to the grand dwelling of
the mayor. The mayor also had a little terrier dog, which was very fond
of him and followed him wherever he went.
When Tommy and the alderman reached the mayor's house the mayor met
them at the door and said:
"Tommy, I am going up the street, and the alderman is going in the
opposite direction. I want you to keep our dogs from following us; but
you must not do it by holding them."
"Very well, sir," replied Tommy; and as the mayor started one way and
the alderman the other, he took out his handkerchief and tied the tails
of the two dogs together. Of course each dog started to follow its
master; but as they were about the same size and strength, and each
pulled in a different direction, the result was that they remained in
one place, and could not move either one way or the other.
"That was well done," said the mayor, coming back again; "but tell me,
can you put my cart before my horse and take me to ride?"
"Certainly, sir," replied Tommy; and going to the mayor's stable he put
the harness on the nag and then led him head-first into the shafts,
instead of backing him into them, as is the usual way. After fastening
the shafts to the horse, he mounted upon the animal's back, and away
they started, pushing the cart before the horse.
"That was easy," said Tommy. "If your honor will get into the cart I'll
take you to ride." But the mayor did not ride, although he was pleased
at Tommy's readiness in solving a difficulty.
After a moment's thought he bade Tommy follow him into the house, where
he gave him a cupful of water, saying,
"Let me see you drink up this cup of water."
Tommy hesitated a moment, for he knew the mayor was trying to catch
him; then, going to a corner of the room, he set down the cup and stood
upon his head in the corner. He now carefully raised the cup to his
lips and slowly drank the water until the cup was empty. After this he
regained his feet, and, bowing politely to the mayor, he said,
"The water is drunk up, your honor."
"But why did you stand on your head to do it?" enquired the alderman,
who had watched the act in astonishment.
"Because otherwise I would have drunk the water down, and not up,"
replied Tommy.
The mayor was now satisfied that Tommy was shrewd enough to do him
honor, so he immediately took him to live in the great house as his
adopted son, and he was educated by the best masters the city afforded.
And Tommy Tucker became in after years not only a great, but a good
man, and before he died was himself mayor of the city, and was known by
the name of Sir Thomas Tucker.
[Illustration: Pussy-cat Mew]
Pussy-cat Mew
"_Pussy-cat, Pussy-cat, where do you go?"
"To London, to visit the palace, you know."
"Pussy-cat Mew, will you come back again?"
"Oh, yes! I'll scamper with might and with main!_"
PUSSY-CAT MEW set off on her way,
Stepping quite softly and feeling quite gay.
Smooth was the road, so she traveled at ease,
Warmed by the sunshine and fanned by the breeze.
Over the hills to the valleys below,
Through the deep woods where the soft mosses grow,
Skirting the fields, with buttercups dotted,
Swiftly our venturesome Pussy-cat trotted.
Sharp watch she kept when a village she neared,
For boys and their mischief our Pussy-cat feared.
Often she crept through the grasses so deep
To pass by a dog that was lying asleep.
Once, as she walked through a sweet-clover field,
Something beside her affrightedly squealed,
And swift from her path there darted away
A tiny field-mouse, with a coat of soft gray.
"Now here," thought our Pussy, "is chance for a dinner;
The one that runs fastest must surely be winner!"
So quickly she started the mouse to give chase,
And over the clover they ran a great race.
But just when it seemed that Pussy would win,
The mouse spied a hole and quickly popped in;
And so he escaped, for the hole was so small
That Pussy-cat couldn't squeeze in it at all.
So, softly she crouched, and with eyes big and round
Quite steadily watched that small hole in the ground.
"This mouse really thinks he's escaped me," she said,
"But I'll catch him sure if he sticks out his head!"
But while she was watching the poor mouse's plight,
A deep growl behind made her jump with affright;
She gave a great cry, and then started to run
As swift as a bullet that's shot from a gun!
"Meow! Oh, meow!" our poor Puss did say;
"Bow-wow!" cried the dog, who was not far away.
O'er meadows and ditches they scampered apace,
O'er fences and hedges they kept up the race!
Then Pussy-cat Mew saw before her a tree,
And knew that a safe place of refuge 'twould be;
So far up the tree with a bound she did go,
And left the big dog to growl down below.
But now, by good fortune, a man came that way,
And called to the dog, who was forced to obey;
But Puss did not come down the tree till she knew
That the man and the dog were far out of view.
Pursuing her way, at nightfall she came
To London, a town you know well by name;
And wandering 'round in byway and street,
A strange Pussy-cat she happened to meet.
"Good evening," said Pussy-cat Mew. "Can you tell
In which of these houses the Queen may now dwell?
I'm a stranger in town, and I'm anxious to see
What sort of a person a real Queen may be."
"My friend," said the other, "you really must know
It isn't permitted that strangers should go
Inside of the palace, unless they're invited,
And stray Pussy-cats are apt to be slighted.
"By good luck, however, I'm quite well aware
Of a way to the palace by means of a stair
That never is guarded; so just come with me,
And a glimpse of the Queen you shall certainly see."
Puss thanked her new friend, and together they stole
To the back of the palace, and crept through a hole
In the fence, and quietly came to the stair
Which the stranger Pussy-cat promised was there.
"Now here I must leave you," the strange Pussy said,
"So don't be 'fraid-cat, but go straight ahead,
And don't be alarmed if by chance you are seen,
For people will think you belong to the Queen."
So Pussy-cat Mew did as she had been told,
And walked through the palace with manner so bold
She soon reached the room where the Queen sat in state,
Surrounded by lords and by ladies so great.
And there in the corner our Pussy sat down,
And gazed at the scepter and blinked at the crown,
And eyed the Queen's dress, all purple and gold;
Which was surely a beautiful sight to behold.
But all of a sudden she started, for there
Was a little gray mouse, right under the chair
Where her Majesty sat, and Pussy well knew
She'd scream with alarm if the mouse met her view.
So up toward the chair our Pussy-cat stole,
But the mouse saw her coming and ran for its hole;
But Pussy ran after, and during the race
A wonderful, terrible panic took place!
The ladies all jumped on their chairs in alarm,
The lords drew their swords to protect them from harm,
And the Queen gave a scream and fainted away--
A very undignified act, I must say.
And some one cried "Burglars!" and some one cried "Treason!"
And some one cried "Murder!" but none knew the reason;
And some one cried "Fire! they are burning the house!"
And some one cried "Silence! it's only a mouse!"
But Pussy-cat Mew was so awfully scared
By the shouting and screaming, no longer she dared
To stay in the room; so without more delay
She rushed from the palace and scampered away!
So bristling her fur, and with heart beating fast,
She came to the road leading homeward at last.
"What business," she thought, "has a poor country cat
To visit a city of madmen like that?
"Straight homeward I'll go, where I am well fed,
Where mistress is kind, and soft is my bed;
Let other cats travel, if they wish to roam,
But as for myself, I shall now stay at home."
And now over hills and valleys she ran,
And journeyed as fast as a Pussy-cat can;
Till just as the dawn of the day did begin
She, safely at home, stole quietly in.
And there was the fire, with the pot boiling on it,
And there was the maid, in the blue checkered bonnet,
And there was the corner where Pussy oft basked,
And there was the mistress, who eagerly asked:
_"Pussy-cat, Pussy-cat, where have you been?"
"I've been to London, to visit the Queen."
"Pussy-cat, Pussy-cat, what did you there?"
"I frightened a little mouse under her chair!"_
[Illustration: How the Beggars Came to Town]
How the Beggars Came to Town
Hark, hark, the dogs do bark,
The beggars are coming to town:
Some in rags, and some in tags,
And some in velvet gown.
VERY fair and sweet was little Prince Lilimond, and few could resist
his soft, pleading voice and gentle blue eyes. And as he stood in the
presence of the King, his father, and bent his knee gracefully before
His Majesty, the act was so courteous and dignified it would have
honored the oldest nobleman of the court.
The King was delighted, and for a time sat silently regarding his son
and noting every detail of his appearance, from the dark velvet suit
with its dainty ruffles and collar to the diamond buckles on the little
shoes, and back again to the flowing curls that clustered thick about
the bright, childish face.
Well might any father be proud of so manly and beautiful a child, and
the King's heart swelled within him as he gazed upon his heir.
"Borland," he said to the tutor, who stood modestly behind the Prince,
"you may retire. I wish to speak privately with his royal highness."
The tutor bowed low and disappeared within the ante-room, and the King
continued, kindly,
"Come here, Lilimond, and sit beside me. Methinks you seem over-grave
this morning."
"It is my birthday, Your Majesty," replied the Prince, as he slowly
obeyed his father and sat beside him upon the rich broidered cushions
of the throne. "I am twelve years of age."
"So old!" said the King, smiling into the little face that was raised
to his. "And is it the weight of years that makes you sad?"
"No, Your Majesty; I long for the years to pass, that I may become a
man, and take my part in the world's affairs. It is the sad condition
of my country which troubles me."
"Indeed!" exclaimed the King, casting a keen glance at his son. "Are
you becoming interested in politics, then; or is there some grievous
breach of court etiquette which has attracted your attention?"
"I know little of politics and less of the court, sire," replied
Lilimond; "it is the distress of the people that worries me."
"The people? Of a surety, Prince, you are better posted than am I,
since of the people and their affairs I know nothing at all. I have
appointed officers to look after their interests, and therefore I have
no cause to come into contact with them myself. But what is amiss?"
"They are starving," said the Prince, looking at his father very
seriously; "the country is filled with beggars, who appeal for charity,
since they are unable otherwise to procure food."
"Starving!" repeated the King; "surely you are misinformed. My Lord
Chamberlain told me but this morning the people were loyal and
contented, and my Lord of the Treasury reports that all taxes and
tithes have been paid, and my coffers are running over."
"Your Lord Chamberlain is wrong, sire," returned the Prince; "my tutor,
Borland, and I have talked with many of these beggars the past few
days, and we find the tithes and taxes which have enriched you have
taken the bread from their wives and children."
"So!" exclaimed the King. "We must examine into this matter." He
touched a bell beside him, and when a retainer appeared directed his
Chamberlain and his Treasurer to wait upon him at once.
The Prince rested his head upon his hand and waited patiently, but the
King was very impatient indeed till the high officers of the court
stood before him. Then said the King, addressing his Chamberlain,
"Sir, I am informed my people are murmuring at my injustice. Is it
true?"
The officer cast an enquiring glance at the Prince, who met his eyes
gravely, before he replied,
"The people always murmur, Your Majesty. They are many, and not all can
be content, even when ruled by so wise and just a King. In every land
and in every age there are those who rebel against the laws, and the
protests of the few are ever heard above the contentment of the many."
"I am told," continued the King, severely, "that my country is overrun
with beggars, who suffer for lack of the bread we have taken from them
by our taxations. Is this true?"
"There are always beggars, Your Majesty, in every country," replied
the Chamberlain, "and it is their custom to blame others for their own
misfortunes."
The King thought deeply for a moment; then he turned to the Lord of the
Treasury.
"Do we tax the poor?" he demanded.
"All are taxed, sire," returned the Treasurer, who was pale from
anxiety, for never before had the King so questioned him, "but from the
rich we take much, from the poor very little."
"But a little from the poor man may distress him, while the rich
subject would never feel the loss. Why do we tax the poor at all?"
"Because, Your Majesty, should we declare the poor free from taxation
all your subjects would at once claim to be poor, and the royal
treasury would remain empty. And as none are so rich but there are
those richer, how should we, in justice, determine which are the rich
and which are the poor?"
Again the King was silent while he pondered upon the words of the Royal
Treasurer. Then, with a wave of his hand, he dismissed them, and turned
to the Prince, saying,
"You have heard the wise words of my councilors, Prince. What have you
to say in reply?"
"If you will pardon me, Your Majesty, I think you are wrong to leave
the affairs of the people to others to direct. If you knew them as well
as I do, you would distrust the words of your councilors, who naturally
fear your anger more than they do that of your subjects."
"If they fear my anger they will be careful to do no injustice to my
people. Surely you cannot expect me to attend to levying the taxes
myself," continued the King, with growing annoyance. "What are my
officers for, but to serve me?"
"They should serve you, it is true," replied the Prince, thoughtfully,
"but they should serve the people as well."
"Nonsense!" answered the King; "you are too young as yet to properly
understand such matters. And it is a way youth has to imagine it is
wiser than age and experience combined. Still, I will investigate the
subject further, and see that justice is done the poor."
"In the meantime," said the Prince, "many will starve to death. Can you
not assist these poor beggars at once?"
"In what way?" demanded the King.
"By giving them money from your full coffers."
"Nonsense!" again cried the King, this time with real anger; "you have
heard what the Chamberlain said: we always have beggars, and none, as
yet, have starved to death. Besides, I must use the money for the grand
ball and tourney next month, as I have promised the ladies of the court
a carnival of unusual magnificence."
The Prince did not reply to this, but remained in silent thought,
wondering what he might do to ease the suffering he feared existed on
every hand amongst the poor of the kingdom. He had hoped to persuade
the King to assist these beggars, but since the interview with the
officers of the court he had lost heart and despaired of influencing
his royal father in any way.
Suddenly the King spoke.
"Let us dismiss this subject, Lilimond, for it only serves to distress
us both, and no good can come of it. You have nearly made me forget it
is your birthday. Now listen, my son: I am much pleased with you, and
thank God that he has given me such a successor for my crown, for I
perceive your mind is as beautiful as your person, and that you will
in time be fitted to rule the land with wisdom and justice. Therefore
I promise, in honor of your birthday, to grant any desire you may
express, provided it lies within my power. Nor will I make any further
condition, since I rely upon your judgment to select some gift I may be
glad to bestow."
As the King spoke, Lilimond suddenly became impressed with an idea
through which he might succor the poor, and therefore he answered,
"Call in the ladies and gentlemen of the court, my father, and before
them all will I claim your promise."
"Good!" exclaimed the King, who looked for some amusement in his son's
request; and at once he ordered the court to assemble.
The ladies and gentlemen, as they filed into the audience chamber, were
astonished to see the Prince seated upon the throne beside his sire,
but being too well bred to betray their surprise they only wondered
what amusement His Majesty had in store for them.
When all were assembled, the Prince rose to his feet and addressed them.
"His Majesty the King, whose kindness of heart and royal condescension
is well known to you all, hath but now promised me, seeing that it is
my birthday, to grant any one request that I may prefer. Is it not
true, Your Majesty?"
"It is true," answered the King, smiling upon his son, and pleased
to see him addressing the court so gravely and with so manly an air;
"whatsoever the Prince may ask, that will I freely grant."
"Then, oh sire," said the Prince, kneeling before the throne, "I ask
that for the period of one day I may reign as King in your stead,
having at my command all kingly power and the obedience of all who owe
allegiance to the crown!"
For a time there was perfect silence in the court, the King growing
red with dismay and embarrassment and the courtiers waiting curiously
his reply. Lilimond still remained kneeling before the throne, and as
the King looked upon him he realized it would be impossible to break
his royal word. And the affair promised him amusement after all, so he
quickly decided in what manner to reply.
"Rise, oh Prince," he said, cheerfully, "your request is granted. Upon
what day will it please you to reign?"
Lilimond arose to his feet.
"Upon the seventh day from this," he answered.
"So be it," returned the King. Then, turning to the royal herald he
added, "Make proclamation throughout the kingdom that on the seventh
day from this Prince Lilimond will reign as King from sunrise till
sunset. And whoever dares to disobey his commands will be guilty of
treason and shall be punished with death!"
The court was then dismissed, all wondering at this marvellous decree,
and the Prince returned to his own apartment where his tutor, Borland,
anxiously awaited him.
Now this Borland was a man of good heart and much intelligence, but
wholly unused to the ways of the world. He had lately noted, with much
grief, the number of beggars who solicited alms as he walked out with
the Prince, and he had given freely until his purse was empty. Then
he talked long and earnestly with the Prince concerning this shocking
condition in the kingdom, never dreaming that his own generosity had
attracted all the beggars of the city toward him and encouraged them to
become more bold than usual.
Thus was the young and tender-hearted Prince brought to a knowledge of
all these beggars, and therefore it was that their condition filled him
with sadness and induced him to speak so boldly to the King, his father.
When he returned to Borland with the tidings that the King had granted
him permission to rule for a day the kingdom, the tutor was overjoyed,
and at once they began to plan ways for relieving all the poor of the
country in that one day.
For one thing, they dispatched private messengers to every part of the
kingdom, bidding them tell each beggar they met to come to the Prince
on that one day he should be King and he would relieve their wants,
giving a broad gold piece to every poor man or woman who asked.
For the Prince had determined to devote to this purpose the gold that
filled the royal coffers; and as for the great ball and tourney the
King had planned, why, that could go begging much better than the
starving people.
On the night before the day the Prince was to reign there was a great
confusion of noise within the city, for beggars from all parts of the
kingdom began to arrive, each one filled with joy at the prospect of
receiving a piece of gold.
There was a continual tramp, tramp of feet, and a great barking of
dogs, as all dogs in those days were trained to bark at every beggar
they saw, and now it was difficult to restrain them.
And the beggars came to town singly and by twos and threes, until
hundreds were there to await the morrow. Some few were very pitiful to
behold, being feeble and infirm from age and disease, dressed in rags
and tags, and presenting an appearance of great distress. But there
were many more who were seemingly hearty and vigorous; and these were
the lazy ones, who, not being willing to work, begged for a livelihood.
And some there were dressed in silken hose and velvet gowns, who,
forgetting all shame, and, eager for gold, had been led by the Prince's
offer to represent themselves as beggars, that they might add to their
wealth without trouble or cost to themselves.
The next morning, when the sun arose upon the eventful day, it found
the Prince sitting upon the throne of his father, dressed in a robe
of ermine and purple, a crown upon his flowing locks and the King's
scepter clasped tightly in his little hand. He was somewhat frightened
at the clamor of the crowd without the palace, but Borland, who stood
behind him, whispered,
"The more you can succor the greater will be your glory, and you will
live in the hearts of your people as the kind Prince who relieved their
sufferings. Be of good cheer, Your Majesty, for all is well."
Then did the Prince command the Treasurer to bring before him the royal
coffers, and to stand ready to present to each beggar a piece of gold.
The Treasurer was very unwilling to do this, but he was under penalty
of death if he refused, and so the coffers were brought forth.
"Your Majesty," said the Treasurer, "if each of those who clamor
without is to receive a piece of gold, there will not be enough within
these coffers to go around. Some will receive and others be denied,
since no further store of gold is to be had."
At this news the Prince was both puzzled and alarmed.
"What are we to do?" he asked of the tutor; but Borland was unable to
suggest a remedy.
Then said the aged Chamberlain, coming forward, and bowing low before
the little King,
"Your Majesty, I think I can assist you in your difficulty. You did
but promise a piece of gold to those who are really suffering and in
need, but so great is the greed of mankind that many without are in
no necessity whatever, but only seek to enrich themselves at your
expense. Therefore I propose you examine carefully each case that
presents itself, and unless the beggar is in need of alms turn him away
empty-handed, as being a fraud and a charlatan."
"Your counsel is wise, oh Chamberlain," replied the Prince, after a
moment's thought; "and by turning away the impostors we shall have gold
enough for the needy. Therefore bid the guards to admit the beggars one
by one."
When the first beggar came before him the Prince asked,
"Are you in need?"
"I am starving, Your Majesty," replied the man, in a whining tone. He
was poorly dressed, but seemed strong and well, and the Prince examined
him carefully for a moment. Then he answered the fellow, saying,
"Since you are starving, go and sell the gold ring I see you are
wearing upon your finger. I can assist only those who are unable to
help themselves."
At this the man turned away muttering angrily, and the courtiers
murmured their approval of the Prince's wisdom.
The next beggar was dressed in velvet, and the Prince sent him away
with a sharp rebuke. But the third was a woman, old and feeble, and she
blessed the Prince as she hobbled joyfully away with a broad gold-piece
clasped tightly within her withered hand.
The next told so pitiful a story that he also received a gold-piece;
but as he turned away the Prince saw that beneath his robe his shoes
were fastened with silver buckles, and so he commanded the guards to
take away the gold and to punish the man for attempting to deceive his
King.
And so many came to him that were found to be unworthy that he finally
bade the guards proclaim to all who waited that any who should be found
undeserving would be beaten with stripes.
That edict so frightened the imposters that they quickly fled, and only
those few who were actually in want dared to present themselves before
the King.
And lo! the task that had seemed too great for one day was performed in
a few hours, and when all the needy had been provided for but one of
the royal coffers had been opened, and that was scarcely empty!
"What think you, Borland?" asked the Prince, anxiously, "have we done
aright?"
"I have learned, Your Majesty," answered the tutor, "that there is a
great difference between those who beg and those who suffer for lack
of bread. For, while all who needed aid were in truth beggars, not all
the beggars needed aid; and hereafter I shall only give alms to those I
know to be honestly in want."
"It is wisely said, my friend," returned the Prince, "and I feel I was
wrong to doubt the wisdom of my father's councilors. Go, Borland, and
ask the King if he will graciously attend me here."
The King arrived and bowed smilingly before the Prince whom he had set
to reign in his own place, and at once the boy arose and presented his
sire with the scepter and crown, saying,
"Forgive me, oh my King, that I presumed to doubt the wisdom of your
rule. For, though the sun has not yet set, I feel that I am all
unworthy to sit in your place, and so I willingly resign my power to
your more skillful hands. And the coffers which I, in my ignorance, had
determined to empty for the benefit of those unworthy, are still nearly
full, and more than enough remains for the expenses of the carnival.
Therefore forgive me, my father, and let me learn wisdom in the future
from the justness of your rule."
Thus ended the reign of Prince Lilimond as King, and not till many
years later did he again ascend the throne upon the death of his father.
And really there was not much suffering in the kingdom at any time, as
it was a prosperous country and well governed; for, if you look for
beggars in any land you will find many, but if you look only for the
deserving poor there are less, and these all the more worthy of succor.
I wish all those in power were as kind-hearted as little Prince
Lilimond, and as ready to help the needy, for then there would be
more light hearts in the world, since it is "better to give than to
receive."
[Illustration: Tom, the Piper's Son]
Tom, the Piper's Son
Tom, Tom, the piper's son,
Stole a pig and away he run;
The pig was eat and Tom was beat
And Tom ran crying down the street.
THERE was not a worse vagabond in Shrewsbury than old Barney the
piper. He never did any work except to play the pipes, and he played
so badly that few pennies ever found their way into his pouch. It was
whispered around that old Barney was not very honest, but he was so sly
and cautious that no one had ever caught him in the act of stealing,
although a good many things had been missed after they had fallen into
the old man's way.
Barney had one son, named Tom; and they lived all alone in a little hut
away at the end of the village street, for Tom's mother had died when
he was a baby. You may not suppose that Tom was a very good boy, since
he had such a queer father; but neither was he very bad, and the worst
fault he had was in obeying his father's wishes when Barney wanted him
to steal a chicken for their supper or a pot of potatoes for their
breakfast. Tom did not like to steal, but he had no one to teach him to
be honest, and so, under his father's guidance, he fell into bad ways.
[Illustration: Tom, the Piper's Son]
One morning
Tom, Tom, the piper's son,
Was hungry when the day begun;
He wanted a bun and asked for one,
But soon found out that there were none.
"What shall we do?" he asked his father.
"Go hungry," replied Barney, "unless you want to take my pipes and play
in the village. Perhaps they will give you a penny."
"No," answered Tom, shaking his head; "no one will give me a penny for
playing; but Farmer Bowser might give me a penny to stop playing, if I
went to his house. He did last week, you know."
"You'd better try it," said his father; "it's mighty uncomfortable to
be hungry."
So Tom took his father's pipes and walked over the hill to Farmer
Bowser's house; for you must know that
Tom, Tom, the piper's son,
Learned to play when he was young;
But the only tune that he could play
Was "Over the hills and far away."
And he played this one tune as badly as his father himself played, so
that the people were annoyed when they heard him, and often begged him
to stop.
When he came to Farmer Bowser's house, Tom started up the pipes and
began to play with all his might. The farmer was in his woodshed,
sawing wood, so he did not hear the pipes; and the farmer's wife was
deaf, and could not hear them. But a little pig that had strayed around
in front of the house heard the noise, and ran away in great fear to
the pigsty.
Then, as Tom saw the playing did no good, he thought he would sing
also, and therefore he began bawling, at the top of his voice,
"Over the hills, not a great ways off,
The woodchuck died with the whooping-cough!"
The farmer had stopped sawing to rest, just then; and when he heard the
singing he rushed out of the shed, and chased Tom away with a big stick
of wood.
The boy went back to his father, and said, sorrowfully, for he was more
hungry than before,
"The farmer gave me nothing but a scolding; but there was a very nice
pig running around the yard."
"How big was it?" asked Barney.
"Oh, just about big enough to make a nice dinner for you and me."
The piper slowly shook his head;
"'Tis long since I on pig have fed,
And though I feel it's wrong to steal,
Roast pig is very nice," he said.
Tom knew very well what he meant by that, so he laid down the pipes,
and went back to the farmer's house.
When he came near he heard the farmer again sawing wood in the
woodshed, and so he went softly up to the pig-sty and reached over and
grabbed the little pig by the ears. The pig squealed, of course, but
the farmer was making so much noise himself that he did not hear it,
and in a minute Tom had the pig tucked under his arm and was running
back home with it.
The piper was very glad to see the pig, and said to Tom,
"You are a good son, and the pig is very nice and fat. We shall have a
dinner fit for a king."
It was not long before the piper had the pig killed and cut into pieces
and boiling in the pot. Only the tail was left out, for Tom wanted to
make a whistle of it, and as there was plenty to eat besides the tail
his father let him have it.
The piper and his son had a fine dinner that day, and so great was
their hunger that the little pig was all eaten up at one meal!
Then Barney lay down to sleep, and Tom sat on a bench outside the door
and began to make a whistle out of the pig's tail with his pocket-knife.
Now Farmer Bowser, when he had finished sawing the wood, found it
was time to feed the pig, so he took a pail of meal and went to the
pigsty. But when he came to the sty there was no pig to be seen, and he
searched all round the place for a good hour without finding it.
"Piggy, piggy, piggy!" he called, but no piggy came, and then he knew
his pig had been stolen. He was very angry, indeed, for the pig was a
great pet, and he had wanted to keep it till it grew very big.
So he put on his coat and buckled a strap around his waist, and went
down to the village to see if he could find out who had stolen his pig.
Up and down the street he went, and in and out the lanes, but no traces
of the pig could he find anywhere. And that was no great wonder, for
the pig was eaten by that time and its bones picked clean.
Finally the farmer came to the end of the street where the piper lived
in his little hut, and there he saw Tom sitting on a bench and blowing
on a whistle made from a pig's tail.
"Where did you get that tail?" asked the farmer.
"I found it," said naughty Tom, beginning to be frightened.
"Let me see it," demanded the farmer; and when he had looked at it
carefully he cried out,
"This tail belonged to my little pig, for I know very well the curl at
the end of it! Tell me, you rascal, where is the pig?"
Then Tom fell in a tremble, for he knew his wickedness was discovered.
"The pig is eat, your honor," he answered.
The farmer said never a word, but his face grew black with anger, and,
unbuckling the strap that was about his waist, he waved it around his
head, and whack! came the strap over Tom's back.
"Ow, ow!" cried the boy, and started to run down the street.
Whack! whack! fell the strap over his shoulders, for the farmer
followed at his heels half-way down the street, nor did he spare the
strap until he had given Tom a good beating. And Tom was so scared that
he never stopped running until he came to the end of the village, and
he bawled lustily the whole way and cried out at every step as if the
farmer was still at his back.
It was dark before he came back to his home, and his father was still
asleep; so Tom crept into the hut and went to bed. But he had received
a good lesson, and never after that could the old piper induce him to
steal.
When Tom showed by his actions his intention of being honest he soon
got a job of work to do, and before long he was able to earn a living
more easily, and a great deal more honestly, than when he stole the pig
to get a dinner and suffered a severe beating as a punishment.
Tom, Tom, the piper's son
Now with stealing pigs was done,
He'd work all day instead of play,
And dined on tart and currant bun.
[Illustration: Humpty, Dumpty]
Humpty Dumpty
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the King's horses
And all the King's men
Cannot put Humpty together again.
AT the very top of the hay-mow in the barn, the Speckled Hen had made
her nest, and each day for twelve days she had laid in it a pretty
white egg. The Speckled Hen had made her nest in this out-of-the-way
place so that no one would come to disturb her, as it was her intention
to sit upon the eggs until they were hatched into chickens.
Each day, as she laid her eggs, she would cackle to herself, saying,
"This will in time be a beautiful chick, with soft, fluffy down all
over its body and bright little eyes that will look at the world in
amazement. It will be one of my children, and I shall love it dearly."
She named each egg, as she laid it, by the name she should call it
when a chick, the first one being "Cluckety-Cluck," and the next
"Cadaw-Cut," and so on; and when she came to the twelfth egg she called
it "Humpty Dumpty."
This twelfth egg was remarkably big and white and of a very pretty
shape, and as the nest was now so full she laid it quite near the
edge. And then the Speckled Hen, after looking proudly at her work,
went off to the barn-yard, clucking joyfully, in search of something to
eat.
When she had gone, Cluckety-Cluck, who was in the middle of the nest
and the oldest egg of all, called out, angrily,
"It's getting crowded in this nest; move up there, some of you
fellows!" And then he gave Cadaw-Cut, who was above him, a kick.
"I can't move unless the others do; they're crowding me down!" said
Cadaw-Cut; and he kicked the egg next above him. And so they continued
kicking one another and rolling around in the nest until one kicked
Humpty Dumpty, and as he lay on the edge of the nest he was kicked
out and rolled down the hay-mow until he came to a stop near the very
bottom.
Humpty did not like this very well, but he was a bright egg for one
so young, and after he had recovered from his shaking up he began to
look about to see where he was. The barn door was open, and he caught
a glimpse of trees and hedges, and green grass with a silvery brook
running through it. And he saw the waving grain and the tasselled maize
and the sunshine flooding it all.
The scene was very enticing to the young egg, and Humpty at once
resolved to see something of this great world before going back to the
nest.
He began to make his way carefully through the hay, and was getting
along fairly well when he heard a voice say,
"Where are you going?"
Humpty looked around and found he was beside a pretty little nest in
which was one brown egg.
"Did you speak?" he asked.
"Yes," replied the brown egg; "I asked where you were going."
"Who are you?" enquired Humpty; "do you belong in our nest?"
"Oh, no!" answered the brown egg; "my name is Coutchie-Coulou, and the
Black Bantam laid me about an hour ago."
"Oh," said Humpty, proudly; "I belong to the Speckled Hen, myself."
"Do you, indeed!" returned Coutchie-Coulou. "I saw her go by a little
while ago, and she's much bigger than the Black Bantam."
"Yes, and I'm much bigger than you," replied Humpty. "But I'm going out
to see the world, and if you like to go with me I'll take good care of
you."
"Isn't it dangerous for eggs to go about all by themselves?" asked
Coutchie, timidly.
"Perhaps so," answered Humpty; "but it's dangerous in the nest, too; my
brothers might have smashed me with their kicking. However, if we are
careful we can't come to much harm; so come along, little one, and I'll
look after you."
Coutchie-Coulou gave him her hand while he helped her out of the nest,
and together they crept over the hay until they came to the barn floor.
They made for the door at once, holding each other tightly by the hand,
and soon came to the threshold, which appeared very high to them.
"We must jump," said Humpty.
"I'm afraid!" cried Coutchie-Coulou. "And I declare! there's my
mother's voice clucking, and she's coming this way."
"Then hurry!" said Humpty. "And do not tremble so or you will get
yourself all mixed up; it doesn't improve eggs to shake them. We will
jump, but take care not to bump against me or you may break my shell.
Now,--one,--two,--three!"
They held each other's hand and jumped, alighting safely in the
roadway. Then, fearing their mothers would see them, Humpty ran as fast
as he could go until he and Coutchie were concealed beneath a rose-bush
in the garden.
"I'm afraid we're bad eggs," gasped Coutchie, who was somewhat out of
breath.
"Oh, not at all," replied Humpty; "we were laid only this morning, so
we are quite fresh. But now, since we are in the world, we must start
out in search of adventure. Here is a roadway beside us which will lead
us somewhere or other; so come along, Coutchie-Coulou, and do not be
afraid."
The brown egg meekly gave him her hand, and together they trotted
along the roadway until they came to a high stone wall, which had sharp
spikes upon its top. It seemed to extend for a great distance, and the
eggs stopped and looked at it curiously.
"I'd like to see what is behind that wall," said Humpty, "but I don't
think we shall be able to climb over it."
"No, indeed," answered the brown egg, "but just before us I see a
little hole in the wall, near the ground; perhaps we can crawl through
that."
They ran to the hole and found it was just large enough to admit
them. So they squeezed through very carefully, in order not to break
themselves, and soon came to the other side.
They were now in a most beautiful garden, with trees and bright-hued
flowers in abundance and pretty fountains that shot their merry sprays
far into the air. In the center of the garden was a great palace, with
bright golden turrets and domes, and many windows that glistened in the
sunshine like the sparkle of diamonds.
Richly dressed courtiers and charming ladies strolled through the
walks, and before the palace door were a dozen prancing horses, gaily
caparisoned, awaiting their riders.
It was a scene brilliant enough to fascinate anyone, and the two eggs
stood spellbound while their eyes feasted upon the unusual sight.
"See!" whispered Coutchie-Coulou, "there are some birds swimming in
the water yonder. Let us go and look at them, for we also may be birds
some day."
[Illustration]
"True," answered Humpty, "but we are just as likely to be omelets or
angel's-food. Still, we will have a look at the birds."
So they started to cross the drive on their way to the pond, never
noticing that the King and his courtiers had issued from the palace and
were now coming down the drive riding upon their prancing steeds. Just
as the eggs were in the middle of the drive the horses dashed by, and
Humpty, greatly alarmed, ran as fast as he could for the grass.
Then he stopped and looked around, and behold! there was poor
Coutchie-Coulou crushed into a shapeless mass by the hoof of one of the
horses, and her golden heart was spreading itself slowly over the white
gravel of the driveway!
Humpty sat down upon the grass and wept grievously, for the death of
his companion was a great blow to him. And while he sobbed, a voice
said to him,
"What is the matter, little egg?"
Humpty looked up, and saw a beautiful girl bending over him.
"One of the horses has stepped upon Coutchie-Coulou," he said; "and now
she is dead, and I have no friend in all the world."
The girl laughed.
"Do not grieve," she said, "for eggs are but short-lived creatures at
best, and Coutchie-Coulou has at least died an honorable death and
saved herself from being fried in a pan or boiled in her own shell. So
cheer up, little egg, and I will be your friend--at least so long as
you remain fresh. A stale egg I never could abide."
"I was laid only this morning," said Humpty, drying his tears, "so you
need have no fear. But do not call me 'little egg,' for I am quite
large, as eggs go, and I have a name of my own."
"What is your name?" asked the Princess.
"It is Humpty Dumpty," he answered, proudly. "And now, if you will
really be my friend, pray show me about the grounds, and through the
palace; and take care I am not crushed."
So the Princess took Humpty in her arms and walked with him all through
the grounds, letting him see the fountains and the golden fish that
swam in their waters, the beds of lilies and roses, and the pools where
the swans floated. Then she took him into the palace, and showed him
all the gorgeous rooms, including the King's own bedchamber and the
room where stood the great ivory throne.
Humpty sighed with pleasure.
"After this," he said, "I am content to accept any fate that may befall
me, for surely no egg before me ever saw so many beautiful sights."
"That is true," answered the Princess; "but now I have one more sight
to show you which will be grander than all the others; for the King
will be riding home shortly with all his horses and men at his back,
and I will take you to the gates and let you see them pass by."
"Thank you," said Humpty.
So she carried him to the gates, and while they awaited the coming of
the King the egg said,
"Put me upon the wall, Princess, for then I shall be able to see much
better than in your arms."
"That is a good idea," she answered; "but you must be careful not to
fall."
Then she sat the egg gently upon the top of the stone wall, where there
was a little hollow; and Humpty was delighted, for from his elevated
perch he could see much better than the Princess herself.
"Here they come!" he cried; and, sure enough, the King came riding
along the road with many courtiers and soldiers and vassals following
in his wake, all mounted upon the finest horses the kingdom could
afford.
As they came to the gate and entered at a brisk trot, Humpty,
forgetting his dangerous position, leaned eagerly over to look at them.
The next instant the Princess heard a sharp crash at her side, and,
looking downward, perceived poor Humpty Dumpty, who lay crushed and
mangled among the sharp stones where he had fallen!
The Princess sighed, for she had taken quite a fancy to the egg; but
she knew it was impossible to gather it up again or mend the matter in
any way, and therefore she returned thoughtfully to the palace.
Now it happened that upon this evening several young men of the
kingdom, who were all of high rank, had determined to ask the King for
the hand of the Princess; so they assembled in the throne room and
demanded that the King choose which of them was most worthy to marry
his daughter.
The King was in a quandary, for all the suitors were wealthy and
powerful, and he feared that all but the one chosen would become his
enemies. Therefore he thought long upon the matter, and at last said,
"Where all are worthy it is difficult to decide which most deserves the
hand of the Princess. Therefore I propose to test your wit. The one who
shall ask me a riddle I cannot guess, can marry my daughter."
At this the young men looked thoughtful, and began to devise riddles
that his Majesty should be unable to guess. But the King was a shrewd
monarch, and each one of the riddles presented to him he guessed with
ease.
Now there was one amongst the suitors whom the Princess herself
favored, as was but natural. He was a slender, fair-haired youth, with
dreamy blue eyes and a rosy complexion, and although he loved the
Princess dearly he despaired of finding a riddle that the King could
not guess.
But while he stood leaning against the wall the Princess approached him
and whispered in his ear a riddle she had just thought of. Instantly
his face brightened, and when the King called, "Now, Master Gracington,
it is your turn," he advanced boldly to the throne.
"Speak your riddle, sir," said the King, gaily; for he thought this
youth would also fail, and that he might therefore keep the Princess by
his side for a time longer.
But Master Gracington, with downcast eyes, knelt before the throne and
spoke in this wise:
"This is my riddle, oh, King:
"Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the King's horses
And all the King's men
Cannot put Humpty together again!"
"Read me that, sire, an' you will!"
The King thought earnestly for a long time, and he slapped his head and
rubbed his ears and walked the floor in great strides; but guess the
riddle he could not.
"You are a humbug, sir!" he cried out at last; "there is no answer to
such a riddle."
"You are wrong, sire," answered the young man; "Humpty Dumpty was an
egg."
"Why did I not think of that before!" exclaimed the King; but he gave
the Princess to the young man to be his bride, and they lived happily
together.
And thus did Humpty Dumpty, even in his death, repay the kindness of
the fair girl who had shown him such sights as an egg seldom sees.
[Illustration: The Woman Who Lived in a Shoe]
The Woman Who Lived in a Shoe
There was an old woman
Who lived in a shoe,
She had so many children
She didn't know what to do;
She gave them some broth
Without any bread,
And whipped them all soundly
And sent them to bed.
A LONG time ago there lived a woman who had four daughters, and these
in time grew up and married and went to live in different parts of
the country. And the woman, after that, lived all alone, and said to
herself, "I have done my duty to the world, and now shall rest quietly
for the balance of my life. When one has raised a family of four
children and has married them all happily, she is surely entitled to
pass her remaining days in peace and comfort."
[Illustration]
She lived in a peculiar little house, that looked something like this
picture. It was not like most of the houses you see, but the old woman
had it built herself, and liked it, and so it did not matter to her how
odd it was. It stood upon the top of a little hill, and there was a
garden at the back and a pretty green lawn in front, with white gravel
paths and many beds of bright colored flowers.
The old woman was very happy and contented there until one day she
received a letter saying that her daughter Hannah was dead and had sent
her family of five children to their grandmother to be taken care of.
This misfortune ruined all the old woman's dreams of quiet; but the
next day the children arrived--three boys and two girls,--and she
made the best of it and gave them the beds her own daughters had once
occupied, and her own cot as well; and she made a bed for herself on
the parlor sofa.
The youngsters were like all other children, and got into mischief once
in awhile; but the old woman had much experience with children and
managed to keep them in order very well, while they quickly learned to
obey her, and generally did as they were bid.
But scarcely had she succeeded in getting them settled in their new
home when Margaret, another of her daughters, died, and sent four more
children to her mother to be taken care of.
The old woman scarcely knew where to keep this new flock that had come
to her fold, for the house was already full; but she thought the matter
over and finally decided she must build an addition to her house.
So she hired a carpenter and built what is called a "lean-to" at the
right of her cottage, making it just big enough to accommodate the four
new members of her family. When it was completed her house looked very
much as it does in this picture.
[Illustration]
She put four little cots in her new part of the house, and then she
sighed contentedly, and said, "Now all the babies are taken care of and
will be comfortable until they grow up." Of course it was much more
difficult to manage nine small children than five; and they often led
each other into mischief, so that the flower beds began to be trampled
upon and the green grass to be worn under the constant tread of little
feet, and the furniture to show a good many scratches and bruises.
But the old woman continued to look after them, as well as she was
able, until Sarah, her third daughter, also died, and three more
children were sent to their grandmother to be brought up.
[Illustration]
The old woman was nearly distracted when she heard of this new addition
to her family, but she did not give way to despair. She sent for the
carpenter again, and had him build another addition to her house, as
the picture shows. Then she put three new cots in the new part for the
babies to sleep in, and when they arrived they were just as cozy and
comfortable as peas in a pod.
The grandmother was a lively old woman for one of her years, but she
found her time now fully occupied in cooking the meals for her twelve
small grandchildren, and mending their clothes, and washing their
faces, and undressing them at night and dressing them in the morning.
There was just a dozen of the babies now, and when you consider they
were about the same age you will realize what a large family the old
woman had, and how fully her time was occupied in caring for them all.
And now, to make the matter worse, her fourth daughter, who had been
named Abigail, suddenly took sick and died, and she also had four small
children that must be cared for in some way.
The old woman, having taken the other twelve, could not well refuse to
adopt these little orphans also.
"I may as well have sixteen as a dozen," she said, with a sigh; "they
will drive me crazy some day, anyhow, so a few more will not matter at
all!"
[Illustration]
Once more she sent for the carpenter, and bade him build a third
addition to the house; and when it was completed she added four more
cots to the dozen that were already in use. The house presented a very
queer appearance now, but she did not mind that so long as the babies
were comfortable. "I shall not have to build again," she said; "and
that is one satisfaction. I have now no more daughters to die and leave
me their children, and therefore I must make up my mind to do the best
I can with the sixteen that have already been inflicted upon me in my
old age."
It was not long before all the grass about the house was trodden down,
and the white gravel of the walks all thrown at the birds, and the
flower beds trampled into shapeless masses by thirty-two little feet
that ran about from morn till night. But the old woman did not complain
at this; her time was too much taken up with the babies for her to miss
the grass and the flowers.
It cost so much money to clothe them that she decided to dress them
all alike, so that they looked like the children of a regular orphan
asylum. And it cost so much to feed them that she was obliged to give
them the plainest food; so there was bread-and-milk for breakfast and
milk-and-bread for dinner and bread-and-broth for supper. But it was a
good and wholesome diet, and the children thrived and grew fat upon it.
One day a stranger came along the road, and when he saw the old woman's
house he began to laugh.
"What are you laughing at, sir?" asked the grandmother, who was sitting
upon her door-steps engaged in mending sixteen pairs of stockings.
"At your house," the stranger replied; "it looks for all the world like
a big shoe!"
"A shoe!" she said, in surprise.
"Why, yes. The chimneys are shoe-straps, and the steps are the heel,
and all those additions make the foot of the shoe."
"Never mind," said the woman; "it may be a shoe, but it is full of
babies, and that makes it different from most other shoes."
But the stranger went on to the village and told all he met that he had
seen an old woman who lived in a shoe; and soon people came from all
parts of the country to look at the queer house, and they usually went
away laughing.
The old woman did not mind this at all; she was too busy to be angry.
Some of the children were always getting bumped heads or bruised shins,
or falling down and hurting themselves, and these had to be comforted.
And some were naughty and had to be whipped; and some were dirty and
had to be washed; and some were good and had to be kissed. It was
"Gran'ma, do this!" and "Gran'ma, do that!" from morning to night, so
that the poor grandmother was nearly distracted. The only peace she
ever got was when they were all safely tucked in their little cots and
were sound asleep; for then, at least, she was free from worry and had
a chance to gather her scattered wits.
"There are so many children," she said one day to the baker-man, "that
I often really don't know what to do!"
"If they were mine, ma'am," he replied, "I'd send them to the
poor-house, or else they'd send me to the mad-house."
Some of the children heard him say this, and they resolved to play him
a trick in return for his ill-natured speech.
The baker-man came every day to the shoe-house, and brought two great
baskets of bread in his arms for the children to eat with their milk
and their broth.
So one day, when the old woman had gone to the town to buy shoes, the
children all painted their faces, to look as Indians do when they are
on the war-path; and they caught the roosters and the turkey-cock and
pulled feathers from their tails to stick in their hair. And then the
boys made wooden tomahawks for the girls and bows-and-arrows for their
own use, and then all sixteen went out and hid in the bushes near the
top of the hill.
By and by the baker-man came slowly up the path with a basket of bread
on either arm; and just as he reached the bushes there sounded in his
ears a most unearthly war-whoop. Then a flight of arrows came from the
bushes, and although they were blunt and could do him no harm, they
rattled all over his body; and one hit his nose, and another his chin,
while several stuck fast in the loaves of bread.
Altogether, the baker-man was terribly frightened; and when all the
sixteen small Indians rushed from the bushes and flourished their
tomahawks, he took to his heels and rand down the hill as fast as he
could go!
When the grandmother returned she asked, "Where is the bread for your
supper?"
The children looked at one another in surprise, for they had forgotten
all about the bread. And then one of them confessed, and told her the
whole story of how they had frightened the baker-man for saying he
would send them to the poor-house.
"You are sixteen very naughty children!" exclaimed the old woman;
"and for punishment you must eat your broth without any bread, and
afterwards each one shall have a sound whipping and be sent to bed."
Then all the children began to cry at once, and there was such an
uproar that their grandmother had to put cotton in her ears that she
might not lose her hearing.
But she kept her promise, and made them eat their broth without any
bread; for, indeed, there was no bread to give them.
Then she stood them in a row and undressed them, and as she put the
night-dress on each one she gave it a sound whipping and sent it to bed.
They cried some, of course, but they knew very well they deserved the
punishment, and it was not long before all of them were sound asleep.
They took care not to play any more tricks on the baker-man, and as
they grew older they were naturally much better behaved.
Before many years the boys were old enough to work for the neighboring
farmers, and that made the woman's family a good deal smaller. And then
the girls grew up and married, and found homes of their own, so that
all the children were in time well provided for.
But not one of them forgot the kind grandmother who had taken such good
care of them, and often they tell their children of the days when they
lived with the old woman in a shoe and frightened the baker-man almost
into fits with their wooden tomahawks.
[Illustration: Little Miss Muffet]
Little Miss Muffet
Little Miss Muffet
Sat on a tuffet,
Eating of curds and whey.
There came a great spider
And sat down beside her
And frightened Miss Muffet away.
LITTLE MISS MUFFET'S father was a big banker in a big city, and he
had so much money that the house he lived in was almost as beautiful
as a king's palace. It was built of granite and marble, and richly
furnished with every luxury that money can buy. There was an army of
servants about the house, and many of them had no other duties than
to wait upon Miss Muffet, for the little girl was an only child and
therefore a personage of great importance. She had a maid to dress her
hair and a maid to bathe her, a maid to serve her at table and a maid
to tie her shoestrings, and several maids beside. And then there was
Nurse Holloweg to look after all the maids and see they did their tasks
properly.
The child's father spent his days at his office and his evenings at his
club; her mother was a leader in society, and therefore fully engaged
from morning till night and from night till morn; so that Little Miss
Muffet seldom saw her parents and scarce knew them when she did see
them.
I have never known by what name she was christened. Perhaps she did
not know herself, for everyone had called her "Miss Muffet" since she
could remember. The servants spoke of her respectfully as Miss Muffet.
Mrs. Muffet would say, at times, "By the way, Nurse, how is Miss
Muffet getting along?" And Mr. Muffet, when he met his little daughter
by chance on the walk or in the hallway, would stop and look at her
gravely and say, "So this is Miss Muffet. Well, how are you feeling,
little one?" And then, without heeding her answer, he would walk away.
Perhaps you think that Miss Muffet, surrounded by every luxury and with
a dozen servants to wait upon her, was happy and contented; but such
was not the case. She wanted to run and romp, but they told her it was
unladylike; she wished to play with other children, but none were rich
enough to be proper associates for her; she longed to dig in the dirt
in the garden, but Nurse Holloweg was shocked at the very thought. So
Miss Muffet became sullen and irritable, and scolded everyone about
her, and lived a very unhappy life. And her food was too rich and gave
her dyspepsia, so that she grew thin and pale and did not sleep well at
night.
One afternoon her mother, who happened to be at home for an hour,
suddenly thought of her little daughter; so she rang the bell and asked
for Nurse Holloweg.
"How is Miss Muffet, Nurse?" enquired the lady.
"Very badly, ma'am," was the reply.
"Badly! What do you mean? Is she ill?"
"She's far from well, ma'am," answered the Nurse, "and seems to be
getting worse every day."
"Well," replied the lady; "you must have the doctor to see her; and
don't forget to let me know what he says. That is all, Nurse."
She turned to her novel again, and the Nurse walked away and sent a
servant for the doctor. That great man, when he came, shook his head
solemnly and said,
"She must have a change. Take her away into the country as soon as
possible."
"And very good advice it was, too," remarked the Nurse to one of the
maids; "for I feel as if I needed a change myself."
When she reported the matter to Mrs. Muffet the mother answered,
"Very well; I will see Mr. Muffet and have him write out a cheque."
And so it was that a week later Little Miss Muffet went to the country,
or rather to a small town where there was a summer hotel that had been
highly recommended to Nurse Holloweg; and with her went the string of
maids and a wagon-load of boxes and trunks.
The morning after their arrival the little girl asked to go out upon
the lawn.
"Well," replied Nurse Holloweg, "Sarah can take you out for half an
hour. But remember you are not to run and get heated, for that will
ruin your complexion; and you must not speak to any of the common
children you meet, for your mother would object; and you must not get
your shoes dusty nor your dress soiled, nor disobey Sarah in any way."
Little Miss Muffet went out in a very angry and sulky mood.
"What's the use of being in the country," she thought, "if I must act
just as I did in the city? I hate Nurse Holloweg, and Sarah, and all
the rest of them! and if I dared I'd just--just run away."
Indeed, a few minutes later, when Sarah had fallen asleep upon a bench
under a big shade tree, Miss Muffet decided she would really run away
for once in her life, and see how it seemed.
There was a pretty lane near by, running between shady trees far out
into the country, and, stealing softly away from Sarah's side, the
little girl ran as fast as she could go, and never stopped until she
was all out of breath.
While she rested and wondered what she could do next, a farmer came
along, driving an empty cart.
"I'll catch on behind," said Miss Muffet, gleefully, "just as I've seen
the boys do in the city. Won't it be fun!"
So she ran and caught on the end of the cart, and actually climbed into
it, falling all in a heap upon the straw that lay upon the bottom. But
it didn't hurt her at all, and the next minute the farmer whipped up
his horses, and they went trotting along the lane, carrying Miss Muffet
farther and farther away from hated Nurse Holloweg and the dreadful
maids.
She looked around upon the green fields and the waving grain, and drew
in deep breaths of the fresh country air, and was happy for almost the
first time in her little life. By and by she lay back upon the straw
and fell asleep; and the farmer, who did not know she was in his cart,
drove on for many miles, until at last he stopped at a small wooden
farm-house, and jumped to the ground.
A woman came to the door to greet him, and he said to her,
"Well, mother, we're home again, you see."
"So I see," she answered; "but did you bring my groceries?"
"Yes," he replied, as he began to unharness the horses; "they are in
the cart."
So she came to the cart and looked within, and saw Miss Muffet, who was
still asleep.
"Where did you get the little girl?" asked the farmer's wife, in
surprise.
"What little girl?" asked he.
"The one in the cart."
He came to the cart and looked in, and was as surprised as his wife.
"She must have climbed into the cart when I left the town," he said;
"but waken her, wife, and we will hear what she has to say."
So the farmer's wife shook the girl by the arm, and Miss Muffet sat up
in the cart and rubbed her eyes and wondered where she was.
"How came you in my cart?" asked the farmer.
"I caught on behind, and climbed in," answered the girl.
"What is your name, and where do you live?" enquired the farmer's wife.
"My name is Miss Muffet, and I live in a big city,--but where, I do not
know."
And that was all she could tell them, so the woman said at last,
"We must keep her till some one comes to claim her, and she can earn
her living by helping me make the cheeses."
"That will be nice," said Miss Muffet, with a laugh, "for Nurse
Holloweg never lets me do anything, and I should like to help somebody
do something."
So they led her into the house, where the farmer's wife wondered at the
fine texture of her dress and admired the golden chain that hung around
her neck.
"Some one will surely come for her," the woman said to her husband,
"for she is richly dressed and must belong to a family of some
importance."
Nevertheless, when they had eaten dinner, for which Little Miss Muffet
had a wonderful appetite, the woman took her into the dairy and told
her how she could assist her in curdling the milk and preparing it for
the cheese-press.
"Why, it's really fun to work," said the girl, at first, "and I should
like to live here always. I do hope Nurse Holloweg will not find me."
After a time, however, she grew weary, and wanted to rest; but the
woman had not yet finished her cheese-making, so she bade the girl keep
at her tasks.
"It's time enough to rest when the work is done," she said, "and if you
stay with me you must earn your board. No one is allowed to idle in
this house."
So Little Miss Muffet, though she felt like crying and was very tired,
kept at her work until at length all was finished and the last cheese
was in the press.
"Now," said the farmer's wife, "since you have worked so well I shall
give you a dish of curds and whey for your supper, and you may go out
into the orchard and eat it under the shade of the trees."
Little Miss Muffet had never eaten curds and whey before, and did not
know how they tasted; but she was very hungry, so she took the dish and
went into the orchard.
She first looked around for a place to sit down, and finally
discovered a little grassy mound, which is called a tuffet in the
country, and seated herself upon it. Then she tasted the curds and whey
and found them very good.
But while she was eating she chanced to look down at her feet, and
there was a great black spider coming straight towards her. The girl
had never seen such an enormous and hideous-looking spider before, and
she was so frightened that she gave a scream and tipped backward off
the tuffet, spilling the curds and whey all over her dress as she did
so. This frightened her more than ever, and as soon as she could get
upon her feet she scampered away to the farm-house as fast as she could
go, crying bitterly as she ran.
The farmer's wife tried to comfort her, and Miss Muffet, between her
sobs, said she had seen "the awfulest, biggest, blackest spider in all
the world!"
This made the woman laugh, for she was not afraid of spiders.
Soon after they heard a sound of wheels upon the road and a handsome
carriage came dashing up to the gate.
"Has anyone seen a little girl who has run away?" asked Nurse Holloweg,
leaning out of the carriage.
"Oh, yes," answered Little Miss Muffet; "here I am, Nurse." And she ran
out and jumped into the carriage, for she was very glad to get back
again to those who would care for her and not ask her to work making
cheeses.
When they were driving back to the town the Nurse said,
"You must promise me, Miss Muffet, never to run away again. You have
frightened me nearly into hysterics, and had you been lost your mother
would have been quite disappointed."
The little girl was silent for a time; then she answered,
"I will promise not to run away if you will let me play as other
children do. But if you do not allow me to run and romp and dig in the
ground, I shall keep running away, no matter how many horrid spiders
come to frighten me!"
And Nurse Holloweg, who had really been much alarmed at so nearly
losing her precious charge, thought it wise to agree to Miss Muffet's
terms.
She kept her word, too, and when Little Miss Muffet went back to her
home in the city her cheeks were as red as roses and her eyes sparkled
with health. And she grew, in time, to be a beautiful young lady, and
as healthy and robust as she was beautiful. Seeing which, the doctor
put an extra large fee in his bill for advising that the little girl be
taken to the country; and Mr. Muffet paid it without a word of protest.
Even after Miss Muffet grew up and was married she never forgot the day
that she ran away, nor the curds and whey she ate for her supper, nor
the great spider that frightened her away from the tuffet.
[Illustration: Three Wise Men of Gotham]
Three Wise Men of Gotham
Three Wise Men of Gotham
Went to sea in a bowl.
If the bowl had been stronger
My tale had been longer.
THERE lived in the great city of Gotham, over against the north gate, a
man who possessed a very wise aspect, but very little else. He was tall
and lean, and had a fine large head, bald and smooth upon the top, with
a circle of white hair behind the ears. His beard was pure white, and
reached to his waist; his eyes were small, dark, and so piercing that
they seemed to read your every thought. His eyebrows were very heavy,
and as white as his beard. He dressed in a long black mantle with a
girdle corded about the middle, and he walked slowly and majestically,
and talked no more than he was obliged to.
When this man passed down the street with his stately tread the people
all removed their hats and bowed to him with great reverence, saying
within themselves,
"He is very wise, this great man; he is a second Socrates."
And soon this was the only name he was called by, and every one in
Gotham knew him as "Socrates."
To be sure this man was not really wise. Had they realized the
truth, not one he met but knew more than Socrates; but his venerable
appearance certainly betokened great wisdom, and no one appeared to
remember that things are seldom what they seem.
Socrates would strut about with bowed head and arms clasped behind him,
and think:
"My! how wise these people take me to be. Every one admires my
beautiful beard. When I look into their faces they drop their eyes. I
am, in truth, a wonderful man, and if I say nothing they will believe
I am full of wisdom. Ah, here comes the schoolmaster; I shall frown
heavily and refuse to notice him, for then he also will be deceived and
think I am pondering upon matters of great import."
Really, the one wise thing about this Socrates was his ability to keep
quiet. For, saying no word, it was impossible he should betray his
ignorance.
Singularly enough, over by the south gate of Gotham there dwelt another
wise man, of much the same appearance as Socrates. His white beard was
a trifle longer and he had lost his left eye, which was covered by a
black patch; but in all other ways his person betokened as much wisdom
as that of the other.
He did not walk about, being lazy and preferring his ease; but he
lived in a little cottage with one room, where the people came to
consult him in regard to all their troubles.
They had named him Sophocles, and when anything went wrong they would
say,
"Let us go and consult Sophocles, for he is very wise and will tell us
what to do."
Thus one man, who had sued his neighbor in the courts, became worried
over the outcome of the matter and came to consult the wise man.
"Tell me, O Sophocles!" he said, as he dropped a piece of money upon a
plate, "shall I win my lawsuit or not?"
Sophocles appeared to ponder for a moment, and then he looked at his
questioner with his one eye and replied,
"If it is not decided against you, you will certainly win your suit."
And the man was content, and went away feeling that his money had been
well invested.
At another time the mother of a pair of baby twins came to him in great
trouble.
"O most wise Sophocles!" she said, "I am in despair! For my little twin
girls are just alike, and I have lost the ribbon that I placed on one
that I might be able to tell them apart. Therefore I cannot determine
which is Amelia and which is Ophelia, and as the priest has christened
them by their proper names it would be a sin to call them wrongly."
[Illustration: Three Wise Men of Gotham]
"Cannot the priest tell?" asked the wise man.
"No one can tell," answered the woman; "neither the priest nor their
father nor myself, for they are just alike. And they are yet too young
to remember their own names. Therefore your great wisdom is our only
resource."
"Bring them to me," commanded Sophocles.
And when they were brought he looked at them attentively and said,
"This is Ophelia and this Amelia. Now tie a red ribbon about Ophelia's
wrist and put a blue ribbon on Amelia, and so long as they wear them
you will not be troubled to tell them apart."
Everyone marvelled greatly that Sophocles should know the children
better than their own mother, but he said to himself,
"Since no one can prove that I am wrong I am sure to be right;" and
thus he maintained his reputation for wisdom.
In a little side street near the center of Gotham lived an old woman
named Deborah Smith. Her home was a wretched little hut, for she was
poor, and supported herself and her husband by begging in the streets.
Her husband was a lazy, short, fat old man, who lay upon a ragged
blanket in the hut all day and refused to work.
"One beggar in the family is enough," he used to grumble, when his wife
upbraided him, "and I am really too tired to work. So let me alone,
my Deborah, as I am about to take another nap."
Nothing she could say would arouse him to action, and she finally
allowed him to do as he pleased.
But one day she met Socrates walking in the street, and after watching
him for a time made up her mind he was nothing more than a fool. Other
people certainly thought him wise, but she was a shrewd old woman, and
could see well enough that he merely looked wise. The next day she went
to the south of the city to beg, and there she heard of Sophocles. When
the people repeated his wise sayings she thought,
"Here is another fool, for any one could tell as much as this man does."
Still, she went to see Sophocles, and, dropping a penny upon his plate,
she asked,
"Tell me, O wise man, how shall I drive my husband to work?"
"By starving him," answered Sophocles; "if you refuse to feed him he
must find a way to feed himself."
"That is true," she thought, as she went away; "but any fool could have
told me that. This wise man is a fraud; even my husband is as wise as
he."
Then she stopped short and slapped her hand against her forehead.
"Why," she cried, "I will make a Wise Man of Perry, my husband, and
then he can earn money without working!"
So she went to her husband and said,
"Get up, Perry Smith, and wash yourself; for I am going to make a Wise
Man of you."
"I won't," he replied.
"You will," she declared, "for it is the easiest way to earn money I
have ever discovered."
Then she took a stick and beat him so fiercely that at last he got up,
and agreed to do as she said.
She washed his long beard until it was as white as snow, and she
shaved his head to make him look bald and venerable. Then she brought
him a flowing black robe with a girdle at the middle; and when he was
dressed, lo! he looked fully as wise as either Socrates or Sophocles.
"You must have a new name," she said, "for no one will ever believe
that Perry Smith is a Wise Man. So I shall hereafter call you Pericles,
the Wisest Man of Gotham!"
She then led him into the streets, and to all they met she declared,
"This is Pericles, the wisest man in the world."
"What does he know?" they asked.
"Everything, and much else," she replied.
Then came a carter, and putting a piece of money in the hand of
Pericles, he enquired,
"Pray tell me of your wisdom what is wrong with my mare?"
"How should I know?" asked Pericles.
"I thought you knew everything," returned the carter, in surprise.
"I do," declared Pericles; "but you have not told me what her symptoms
are."
"She refuses to eat anything," said the carter.
"Then she is not hungry," returned Pericles; "for neither man nor beast
will refuse to eat when hungry."
And the people who heard him whispered together and said,
"Surely this is a wise man, for he has told the carter what is wrong
with his mare."
After a few days the fame of Pericles' sayings came to the ears of both
Socrates and Sophocles, and they resolved to see him, for each feared
he would prove more wise than they were, knowing themselves to be
arrant humbugs. So one morning the three wise men met together outside
the hut of Pericles, and they sat themselves down upon stools, facing
each other, while a great crowd of people gathered around to hear the
words of wisdom that dropped from their lips.
But for a time all three were silent, and regarded one another
anxiously, for each feared he might betray himself.
Finally Sophocles winked his one eye at the others and said, in a grave
voice,
"The earth is flat; for, were it round, as some fools say, all the
people would slide off the surface."
Then the people, who had listened eagerly, clapped their hands together
and murmured,
"Sophocles is wisest of all. What he says is truth."
This provoked Socrates greatly, for he felt his reputation was in
danger; so he said with a frown,
"The world is shallow, like a dish; were it flat the water would all
run over the edges, and we should have no oceans."
Then the people applauded more loudly than before, and cried,
"Socrates is right! he is wisest of all."
Pericles, at this, shifted uneasily upon his stool, for he knew he must
dispute the matter boldly or his fame would depart from him. Therefore
he said, with grave deliberation,
"You are wrong, my friends. The world is hollow, like the shell of a
cocoanut, and we are all inside the shell. The sky above us is the
roof, and if you go out upon the ocean you will come to a place, no
matter in which direction you go, where the sky and the water meet. I
know this is true, for I have been to sea."
The people cheered loudly at this, and said,
"Long live Pericles, the wisest of the wise men!"
"I shall hold I am right," protested Sophocles, "until Pericles and
Socrates prove that I am wrong."
"That is fair enough," said the people.
"And I also shall hold myself to be right until they prove me wrong,"
declared Socrates, firmly.
"I know I am right," said Pericles, "for you cannot prove me wrong."
"We can take a boat and sail over the sea," remarked Socrates, "and
when we come to the edge we will know the truth. Will you go?"
"Yes," answered Sophocles; and Pericles, because he did not dare
refuse, said "Yes" also.
Then they went to the shore of the sea, and the people followed them.
There was no boat to be found anywhere, for the fishers were all away
upon the water; but there was a big wooden bowl lying upon the shore,
which the fishermen used to carry their fish to market in.
"This will do," said Pericles, who, because he weighed the most, was
the greatest fool of the three.
So the wise men all sat within the bowl, with their feet together, and
the people pushed them out into the water.
The tide caught the bowl and floated it out to sea, and before long the
wise men were beyond sight of land.
They were all greatly frightened, for the bowl was old and cracked, and
the water leaked slowly through until their feet were covered. They
clung to the edge with their hands and looked at one another with white
faces. Said Pericles,
"I was a fool to come to sea in this bowl."
"Ah," remarked Socrates, "if you are a fool, as you confess, then you
cannot be a wise man."
"No," answered Pericles, "but I'll soon be a dead man."
"I also was a fool," said Sophocles, who was weeping from his one eye
and trembling all over, "for if I had stayed upon land I would not
have been drowned."
"Since you both acknowledge it," sighed Socrates, "I will confess that
I also am a fool, and have always been one; but I looked so wise the
people insisted I must know everything!"
"Yes, yes," Sophocles groaned, "the people have murdered us!"
"My only regret," said Pericles, "is that my wife is not with me. If
only she were here"--
He did not finish what he was saying, for just then the bowl broke in
two. And the people are still waiting for the three wise men to come
back to them.
[Illustration: Little Bun Rabbit]
Little Bun Rabbit
"Oh, Little Bun Rabbit, so soft and so shy,
Say, what do you see with your big, round eye?"
"On Christmas we rabbits," says Bunny so shy,
"Keep watch to see Santa go galloping by."
LITTLE DOROTHY had passed all the few years of her life in the country,
and being the only child upon the farm she was allowed to roam about
the meadows and woods as she pleased. On the bright summer mornings
Dorothy's mother would tie a sun-bonnet under the girl's chin, and then
she romped away to the fields to amuse herself in her own way.
She came to know every flower that grew, and to call them by name,
and she always stepped very carefully to avoid treading on them, for
Dorothy was a kind-hearted child and did not like to crush the pretty
flowers that bloomed in her path. And she was also very fond of all the
animals, and learned to know them well, and even to understand their
language, which very few people can do. And the animals loved Dorothy
in turn, for the word passed around amongst them that she could be
trusted to do them no harm. For the horse, whose soft nose Dorothy
often gently stroked, told the cow of her kindness, and the cow told
the dog, and the dog told the cat, and the cat told her black kitten,
and the black kitten told the rabbit when one day they met in the
turnip patch.
Therefore when the rabbit, which is the most timid of all animals and
the most difficult to get acquainted with, looked out of a small bush
at the edge of the wood one day and saw Dorothy standing a little way
off, he did not scamper away, as is his custom, but sat very still and
met the gaze of her sweet eyes boldly, although perhaps his heart beat
a little faster than usual.
Dorothy herself was afraid she might frighten him away, so she kept
very quiet for a time, leaning silently against a tree and smiling
encouragement at her timorous companion until the rabbit became
reassured and blinked his big eyes at her thoughtfully. For he was as
much interested in the little girl as she in him, since it was the
first time he had dared to meet a person face to face.
Finally Dorothy ventured to speak, so she asked, very softly and slowly,
"Oh, Little Bun Rabbit, so soft and so shy,
Say, what do you see with your big, round eye?"
"Many things," answered the rabbit, who was pleased to hear the girl
speak in his own language; "in summer-time I see the clover-leaves
that I love to feed upon and the cabbages at the end of the farmer's
garden. I see the cool bushes where I can hide from my enemies, and I
see the dogs and the men long before they can see me, or know that I am
near, and therefore I am able to keep out of their way."
"Is that the reason your eyes are so big?" asked Dorothy.
"I suppose so," returned the rabbit; "you see we have only our eyes and
our ears and our legs to defend ourselves with. We cannot fight, but we
can always run away, and that is a much better way to save our lives
than by fighting."
"Where is your home, bunny?" enquired the girl.
"I live in the ground, far down in a cool, pleasant hole I have dug in
the midst of the forest. At the bottom of the hole is the nicest little
room you can imagine, and there I have made a soft bed to rest in at
night. When I meet an enemy I run to my hole and jump in, and there I
stay until all danger is over."
"You have told me what you see in summer," continued Dorothy, who was
greatly interested in the rabbit's account of himself, "but what do you
see in the winter?"
"In winter we rabbits," said Bunny so shy,
"Keep watch to see Santa go galloping by."
"And do you ever see him?" asked the girl, eagerly.
"Oh, yes; every winter. I am not afraid of him, nor of his reindeer.
And it is such fun to see him come dashing along, cracking his whip and
calling out cheerily to his reindeer, who are able to run even swifter
than we rabbits. And Santa Claus, when he sees me, always gives me a
nod and a smile, and then I look after him and his big load of toys
which he is carrying to the children, until he has galloped away out of
sight. I like to see the toys, for they are so bright and pretty, and
every year there is something new amongst them. Once I visited Santa,
and saw him make the toys."
"Oh, tell me about it!" pleaded Dorothy.
"It was one morning after Christmas," said the rabbit, who seemed to
enjoy talking, now that he had overcome his fear of Dorothy, "and I was
sitting by the road-side when Santa Claus came riding back in his empty
sleigh. He does not come home quite so fast as he goes, and when he saw
me he stopped for a word.
"'You look very pretty this morning, Bun Rabbit,' he said, in his jolly
way; 'I think the babies would love to have you to play with.'
"'I don't doubt it, your honor,' I answered; 'but they'd soon kill me
with handling, even if they did not scare me to death; for babies are
very rough with their playthings.'
"'That is true,' replied Santa Claus; 'and yet you are so soft and
pretty it is a pity the babies can't have you. Still, as they would
abuse a live rabbit I think I shall make them some toy rabbits, which
they cannot hurt; so if you will jump into my sleigh with me and ride
home to my castle for a few days, I'll see if I can't make some toy
rabbits just like you.'
"Of course I consented, for we all like to please old Santa, and a
minute later I had jumped into the sleigh beside him and we were
dashing away at full speed toward his castle. I enjoyed the ride
very much, but I enjoyed the castle far more; for it was one of the
loveliest places you could imagine. It stood on the top of a high
mountain and is built of gold and silver bricks, and the windows are
pure diamond crystals. The rooms are big and high, and there is a soft
carpet upon every floor and many strange things scattered around to
amuse one. Santa Claus lives there all alone, except for old Mother
Hubbard, who cooks the meals for him; and her cupboard is never bare
now, I can promise you! At the top of the castle there is one big room,
and that is Santa's work-shop, where he makes the toys. On one side is
his work-bench, with plenty of saws and hammers and jack-knives; and on
another side is the paint-bench, with paints of every color and brushes
of every size and shape. And in other places are great shelves, where
the toys are put to dry and keep new and bright until Christmas comes
and it is time to load them all into his sleigh.
"After Mother Hubbard had given me a good dinner, and I had eaten some
of the most delicious clover I have ever tasted, Santa took me up into
his work-room and sat me upon the table.
"'If I can only make rabbits half as nice as you are,' he said, 'the
little ones will be delighted.' Then he lit a big pipe and began to
smoke, and soon he took a roll of soft fur from a shelf in a corner
and commenced to cut it out in the shape of a rabbit. He smoked and
whistled all the time he was working, and he talked to me in such a
jolly way that I sat perfectly still and allowed him to measure my ears
and my legs so that he could cut the fur into the proper form.
"'Why, I've got your nose too long, Bunny,' he said once; and so he
snipped a little off the fur he was cutting, so that the toy rabbit's
nose should be like mine. And again he said, 'Good gracious! the ears
are too short entirely!' So he had to get a needle and thread and sew
on more fur to the ears, so that they might be the right size. But
after a time it was all finished, and then he stuffed the fur full
of sawdust and sewed it up neatly; after which he put in some glass
eyes that made the toy rabbit look wonderfully life-like. When it was
all done he put it on the table beside me, and at first I didn't know
whether I was the live rabbit or the toy rabbit, we were so much alike.
"'It's a very good job,' said Santa, nodding his head at us pleasantly;
'and I shall have to make a lot of these rabbits, for the little
children are sure to be greatly pleased with them.'
"So he immediately began to make another, and this time he cut the fur
just the right size, so that it was even better than the first rabbit.
"'I must put a squeak in it,' said Santa.
"So he took a box of squeaks from a shelf and put one into the rabbit
before he sewed it up. When it was all finished he pressed the toy
rabbit with his thumb, and it squeaked so naturally that I jumped off
the table, fearing at first the new rabbit was alive. Old Santa laughed
merrily at this, and I soon recovered from my fright and was pleased to
think the babies were to have such pretty playthings.
"'After this,' said Santa Claus, 'I can make rabbits without having you
for a pattern; but if you like you may stay a few days longer in my
castle and amuse yourself.'
"I thanked him and decided to stay. So for several days I watched him
making all kinds of toys, and I wondered to see how quickly he made
them, and how many new things he invented.
"'I almost wish I was a child,' I said to him one day, 'for then I too
could have playthings.'
"'Ah, you can run about all day, in summer and in winter, and enjoy
yourself in your own way,' said Santa; 'but the poor little children
are obliged to stay in the house in the winter and on rainy days in
the summer, and then they must have toys to amuse them and keep them
contented.'
"I knew this was true, so I only said, admiringly,
"'You must be the quickest and the best workman in all the world,
Santa.'
"'I suppose I am,' he answered; 'but then, you see, I have been making
toys for hundreds of years, and I make so many it is no wonder I am
skillful. And now, if you are ready to go home, I'll hitch up the
reindeer and take you back again.'
"'Oh, no,' said I, 'I prefer to run by myself, for I can easily find
the way and I want to see the country.'
"'If that is the case,' replied Santa, 'I must give you a magic collar
to wear, so that you will come to no harm.'
"So, after Mother Hubbard had given me a good meal of turnips and
sliced cabbage, Santa Claus put the magic collar around my neck and I
started for home. I took my time on the journey, for I knew nothing
could harm me, and I saw a good many strange sights before I got back
to this place again."
"But what became of the magic collar?" asked Dorothy, who had listened
with breathless interest to the rabbit's story.
"After I got home," replied the rabbit, "the collar disappeared from
around my neck, and I knew Santa had called it back to himself again.
He did not give it to me, you see; he merely let me take it on my
journey to protect me. The next Christmas, when I watched by the
road-side to see Santa, I was pleased to notice a great many of the toy
rabbits sticking out of the loaded sleigh. The babies must have liked
them, too, for every year since I have seen them amongst the toys.
"Santa never forgets me, and every time he passes he calls out, in his
jolly voice,
"'A merry Christmas to you, Bun Rabbit! The babies still love you
dearly.'"
The Rabbit paused, and Dorothy was just about to ask another question
when Bunny raised his head and seemed to hear something coming.
"What is it?" enquired the girl.
"It's the farmer's big shepherd dog," answered the Rabbit, "and I must
be going before he sees me, or I shall have to run for my life. So good
bye, Dorothy; I hope we shall meet again, and then I will gladly tell
you more of my adventures."
The next instant he had sprung into the wood, and all that Dorothy
could see of him was a gray streak darting in and out amongst the trees.
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Mother Goose in Prose" ***
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