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About Google Book Search Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web at |http: //books .google .com/I AUNT CHARLOTTE'S EVENINGS AT .60M.E ije- f,: AUNT CHARLOTTE'S BOOKS FOR CHILDREN. Ufifmrm U &*e, Priet,and Apptaranet^mih " AmU CharletUt Evtningt at Hcmt," Bui^ 9toEiikIe iUnstratrii, Cilt Ctati, Vtfa 0/-. . By charlotte M. YONGE, AUTKOK or "nm Ku> or Riik3.y*fh.- «c.. ac StoilM of EKOLISH ....HlBtoiy for the Little Ones. „ BIM^E HlBtotT fi>r tlia Little Ones. „ ^ElBNOH HM017 for the Little Onu. „ BOlifAn' HtlAorr for the LitUe Ones. „ QERUAN Hiatoiy for the Little Ones. ,r GREEK History A>r the Little Ones. „ AMEBIOAir 3tBtOT7 for the Little Ones. \lwt Prwfvaiitn. A CoHPLBTB Catalogui ov Hucds Waid & Co.'s Pdblicattons ■■MT PO«T FlUB ON APPUCATION. MARCUS WARD & CO., LONDON &. Belfast. -■ p^"T rt-:PK.Ys B.\' •^ ^. • - AUNT CHARLOTTE'S Evenings at Home WITH THE POETS A Collection of Poems for the Young, 7vith Conversations, arranged in Twenty-five Evenings BV CHARLOTTE M. YONGE Author of **Thb Heir op Redclyffb/' "Stories of English History,' ** Stories of Bible History," &c. WITH EIQHT ILLUSTRATIONS, FROM DRAWINGS BY MRS. J. W. WHYMPER i'^Mu. :ii V* <6 . APf: '"81 yi v<55 ^llM ,V> Xondon: MARCUS WARD & CO, 67, 68. CHANDOS STREET, W.C. And royal ULSTER WORKS, BELFAST 1881 S'd \s>\0 . -I PREFACE, AN endeavour has been made to render the -^ ensuing selection of Poetry for Children some- what unlike the numerous collections already in print, by in some degree classifying the subjects ; and like- wise, by adding such explanations, and, in some cases, criticisms and notices of the authors and occasions on which the verses were written, as may render them more interesting to young readers. The conversa- tional form has been adopted as best suited to the variety of comments and elucidations that seemed to be called for. Old favourites and new have been brought together, some very easy, others more advanced. Among English living authors who have kindly given per- mission for the use of their works, I have to thank the Archbishop of Dublin, Professors Morle^ ^xsd 6 Preface. Miller, Mrs. Alexander, Dr. Bennett, Mr. F. W. Bourdillon, Rev. Frederick Langbridge, Mr. Ailing- ham, Mr. Sabine Baring-Gould; also the author and publishers of two charming poems in Littie Folks, and of another from the Magazine for i/ie Young, with other kind anonymous writers. Also the repre- sentatives of Mrs. Barrett Browning, Rev. J. Keble, and the Rev. H. Whitehead. Also Messrs. C. Kegan Paul & Co., for the two poems from the Life of Mrs. Gilbert — " The Song of the Tea-kettle" and "Crocuses," and the three poems — "Silent Bells of Bottreau," " Ringers of Lancell's Tower," " Baptism of the Peasant and the Prince," by Rev. R. Hawker; Messrs. Rivingtons, for the poem, "Baby to Daylight," by Rev. H. Lyte ; Messrs. George Routledge & Sons, for the poem, " Hide and Seek in a Manor-House ; " Messrs. F. Warne & Co., for " How the Bees Swarm," by Mrs. Gemmer; Messrs. Griffith & Farren, for " Kitten Gossip," by Mr. Westwood ; Messrs. A. Strahan & Co., for "Where did you come from?" by Dr. George Macdonald. C. M. YONGE. CONTENTS. EvcNiNG I,— Thk Glow-worm, „ il.— G»Ts AND Kittens, „ III.— Wind and Rain, .... „ IV.— The Butterfly's Ball, and the Peacock i HOUE, „ v.— The Fox, „ VI.— One-sidedness, ,. VII.— King Robert's Bowl, „ VIII,— The Fireside, „ IX.— Steam, „ X.— Robin Redbreast, „ XI.— Bells, . „ XII,— Frogs and Toads, „ XIII.— The Baby, „ XIV.— Bears. „ XV,— Docs, . Contents. 136 246 EvKsiNG XVI.— Butterflies, „ XVII.— Little Things, „ XVIII.— Fairy Lore, „ XIX.— Snakes amd Crocodiles, „ XX— The Spider, ., XXL— Temptation and Faithfulness, XXIL— A Few Flowers, . „ XXIIL— The Poultry-vard. , „ XXIV.— The May-fly, XXV.— Shells. (|0lott»d jnu9tmtions. The Butterfly's Ball (p. 58), . Fraiilispieet. The Glow-worm, ....... 30 The Cricket ........ 114 The Toad, ........ i;o The Butterfly's Funeral. .33a The Spider, ....... 286 The May-fly, . .336 The Nautilus, ....... 350 ^mi (^\m\Mn (&^n\^^ at gwrne. EVE N I NG I. THE GLOW-WORM. Aunt Charlotte, Alice, Grace, Edmund. Ah'ce. Aunt Charlotte, we have a scheme. Auni C. Let me hear it. Alice. You have a delightful portfolio of drawings of all sorts of things. Grace. Cats and dogs, and crickets, and nautilus shells, and Aunt C. Well, we need not have the whole cata- I<^e, Gracie. What of them } Alice. I thought how nice it would be if we could put together all the verses about each of them. Suppose every evening we fixed on a picture, and \ / lo Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. brought all the verses we could hunt up about it in the course of the day. Edmund. What humbug ! Aunt C. I am not so sure of that, Edmund ; I think you would find that we were much amused by the search. Edmund. For instance, here 's your first picture — a glow-worm. What can any one find to say about a glow-worm ? Alice. Oh, Aunt Charlotte, do let me repeat the verses you wrote for me when I was little. DAME GLOW-WORM'S LAMP. Oh 1 see that shining spark, Bright gleaming in the dark ; Is it a tiny star, Dropt from the heavens afar ? Gem of the summer night. Of purest emerald light ! Within her mossy nest, In grey and russet drest. Dame Glow-worm trims her light. To lure her wandering knight. Sir Glow-worm, clad in mail. Borne on the summer gale. With tiny lamp beneath. Flies over hill and heath. The Glow-worm. Wherever he may roam, Her lamp will call him home. Pattern of household mirth, Lighting our home and hearth ; Pattern of homely love, Caught from the Heaven above; Pattern of that true Light That makes our pathway bright Edmund. There ! they show what nonsense it is. Alue. Not a bit, Edmund. It is quite true, is it not. Aunt, that the male glow-worms By about and don't shine, and the females shine, but have no wings ? Aunt C. It is nearly true; but I have lately seen it stated that male glow-worms have a very faint lanw- on the under side of their bodies, though I am no^ sure that they always show them. At any rate, we are not likely to find them out, for we usually see the creatures as little beetles, which dash in on early autumn evenings, attracted by our lamps and candles. Edmund. Then this male is neither worm nor glow I Aunt C. A very litde glow. The animal is really and truly classed as a beetle with a wingless female. Alice. I am afraid that you are too scientific to enjoy the verses that I have here, since they make the '4*- ri Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book, a glow-worm both masculine and a reptile — neither of which it can be called. THE GLOW-WORM. Beneath the hedge, or near the stream, A worm is known to stray ; That shows by night a lucid beam, Which disappears by day. Disputes have been, and still prevail, From whence his rays proceed ; Some give that honour to his tail, And others to his head. But this is sure — the Hand of might, That kindles up the skies, Gives him a modicum of light Proportioned to his size. Perhaps indulgent Nature meant, By such a lamp bestowed. To bid the traveller as he went Be careful where he trod. Nor crush a worm, whose useful light Might serve, however small. To show a stumbling-stone by night, And save him from a fall. Mt- T/ie GloW'Worm. i% Whate'er she meant, this truth divine Is legible and plain, 'Tis power Almighty bids him shine, Nor bids him shine in vain. Ye proud and wealthy, let this theme Teach humbler thoughts to you. Since such a reptile has its gem, And boasts its splendour too. COWPER. Aunt C. Cowper knew little of natural science, but that was not needed to convey the great thought in the last verses — the one thing in which all study results — the " Power that bids him shine." A /zee. Is there not another poem of Cowper's about glow-worms ? Aunt C. The fable of the nightingale and glow- worm. THE NIGHTINGALE AND GLOW-WORM. A Nightingale that all day long Had cheered the village with his song. Nor yet at eve his note suspended. Nor yet when eventide was ended, Began to feel, as well he might. The keen demands of appetite; \ 14 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. When, looking eagerly around, He spied far off upon the ground A something shining in the dark, And knew the Glow-worm by his spark. So, stooping down from hawthorn-top, He thought to put him in his crop. The Worm, aware of his intent, Harangued him thus, quite eloquent — " Did you admire my lamp," quoth he, *' As much as I your minstrelsy. You would abhor to do me wrong. As much as I to spoil your song ; For 'twas the self-same Power divine Taught you to sing and me to shine ; That you with music, I with light. Might beautify and cheer the night." The songster heard his short oration. And, warbling out his approbation. Released him, as my story tells. And found a supper somewhere else. COWPER. Edmund. I don*t see much sense in that, by way of fable I Pray, does it profess to have a moral, as they call it ? Alice. I suppose the moral is that we should respect one another's endowments. Aunt C. I believe there is thus much of fact in the ^' jrr T/^e Glow-worm. i^ fable, that wise men believe that the Glow-worm's lovely green phosphorescent spark may have been given her to scare away the birds that feed by night. I cannot help thinking poor Cowper was a sort of Glow-worm in his own way, though he little enjoyed his own light Do you know anything about him ? Edmund. Didn't he keep hares, and go out of his mind ? Alice. What an odd jumble. Edmund. Can you mend it } Alice. I know he was born in 1730, and died int 1800, for I learnt that in my book of dates. I am sure he wrote a great deal Grace. Something about his mother's picture. Aunt C. It is a sad story. He lost both his father and mother when a very little child, and that poem describes his dim recollections of his happy child- hood. He was sent to Westminster school, and being very timid and delicate, was terribly bullied, and made most miserable. He says that he was so much afraid of the boy to whom he was fag, that he never raised his eyes above his shoes, and did not know what his face was like. \ 1 6 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. Edmund. He must have been a horrid little coward ! Aunt C. Most likely he was of a nature quite unfit for school, and these were rough times ; but who knows how much the thoughtless cruelty of that boy may have had to do with his broken spirits ? He grew up and studied the law, and was very happy v/ith some young cousins, with whom, he said, he spent his time in giggling and making giggle. But when an office was vacant, to which one of his relations was going to J |- appoint him, after an examination, he worked himself up into such an agony that a terrible attack of disease came on ; and though he lived for many years longer, he could never return to the business of life. He was boarded with a clergyman at Huntingdon, named Unwin ; and when Mr. Unwin was killed by a fall from his horse, his widow continued to take care of Mr. Cowper. They lived first at Olney and then at Weston, and there Cowper gardened, played with his tame hares, wrote delightful letters, and, in especial, wrote verses in a much more simple, natural style than most of those who had gone before him. Properly speaking, that first poem on the Glow-worm is his The GloW'Worm. 17 translation from a scholar named Vincent Bourne, who wrote Latin verses. Alice. You call him a Glow-worm because his was a bright pure light in a dark place ? Aunt C. Yes; in very evil times his voice was always raised to uphold whatever was good, and that in the midst of the utmost sadness of heart. Every- thing seemed dark and hopeless to himself, and yet, instead of grieving other people with his sorrows, he always showed himself playful and cheerful, as long as he had strength of mind or body to hold up against his depression. But we must not leave off sorrowful, j" and I have still another Glow-worm poem for you. THE PILGRIM'S DREAM; Or, the Star and the Glow-worm. A pilgrim, when the sunny day Had closed upon his weary way, A lodging begged beneath a castle's roof; But him the haughty warder spurned. And from the gate the pilgrim turned. To seek such covert as the field Or heath-besprinkled copse might yield, Or lofty wood, shower proof. X 1 8 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. He paced along, and, pensively, Halting beneath a shady tree, Whose moss-grown root might serve for couch or Fixed on a star his upward eye ; [seat. Then, from the tenant of the sky. He turned, and watched with kindred look A Glow-worm, in a dusky nook. Apparent at his feet The murmur of a neighbouring stream Induced a soft and slumbrous dream — A pregnant dream, within whose shadowy bounds He recognised the earth-born Star, And that which glittered from afar ; And (strange to witness !) from the frame Of the ethereal orb, there came Intelligible sounds. Much did it taunt the humbler light. That now, when day was fled, and night Hushed the dark earth — fast closing weary eyes, A very reptile could presume To show her taper in the gloom. As if in rivalship with one Who sate a ruler in his throne Erected in the skies. The GloW'Worm. 19 " Exalted Star ! " the Worm replied, "Abate this unbecoming pride, Or with a less uneasy lustre shine. Thou shrink'st as momently thy rays Are mastered by the breaking haze ; While neither mist, nor thickest cloud That shapes in heaven its murky shroud, Hath power to injure mine. ^ But not for this do I aspire To match the spark of local fire. That at my will burns on the dewy lawn^ With thy acknowledged glories — No ! Yet, thus upbraided, I may show What favours do attend me here. Till, like thyself, I disappear Before the purple dawn." When this in modish guise was said. Across the welkin seemed to spread A boding sound — for aught but sleep unfit I Hills quaked — the rivers backward ran — That Star, so proud of late, looked wan. And reeled with visionary stir In the blue depth, like Lucifer Cast headlong to the pit ! 20 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. ¥ Fire raged, and when the spangled floor Of ancient ether was no more, New heavens succeeded, by the dream brought forth : And all the happy souls that rode Transfigured through that fresh abode, Had heretofore, in humble trust. Shone meekly 'mid their native dust. The Glow-worms of the earth 1 This knowledge, from an angel's voice Proceeding, made the heart rejoice Of him who slept upon the open lea ; Waking at morn, he murmured not. And, till life's journey closed, the spot Was to the pilgrim's soul endeared. Where by that dream he had been cheered Beneath the shady tree. Wordsworth. Edmund. There 's the reptile again. Alice. I don't think I quite understand it Edmund. What 's the welkin } Alice. The sky — wolken in German. That's not the difficulty to me. Was the star proud } Aunt C. I suppose so. The fable takes the star as a thing temporal — proud of its exaltation, and pleased to see any light like its own on earth. The The Glow-worm. 19 " Exalted Star !" the Worm replied, "Abate this unbecoming pride, Or with a less uneasy lustre shine. Thou shrink'st as momently thy rays Are mastered by the breaking haze ; While neither mist, nor thickest cloud That shapes in heaven its murky shroud, Hath power to injure mine. *" But not for this do I aspire To match the spark of local fire, That at my will burns on the dewy lawn. With thy acknowledged glories — No ! Yet, thus upbraided, I may show What favours do attend me here, Till, like thyself, I disappear Before the purple dawn." When this in modish guise was said, Across the welkin seemed to spread A boding sound — for aught but sleep unfit! Hills quaked — ^the rivers backward ran — That Star, so proud of late, looked wan, And reeled with visionary stir In the blue depth, like Lucifer Cast headlong to the pit ! The Glow-worm. 21 Glow-worm replies that at least her light is not liable to be obscured by vapour and mist ; though she dares not compare herself to the star, still she will do her best, till both shall disappear in the perfect day. Then suddenly comes the end of all things, and the reward of humility, when all the happy souls Had heretofore in humble trust Shone meekly through their native dust, The Glow-worms of the earth. Alice. That is like my favourite text, " The path of the just is the shining light, that shineth more and more and more unto the perfect day." Aunt C. The true lesson of the Glow-worm ! Alice. Please, Aunt Charlotte, set us some subject to find verses for to-morrow. Aunt C. Very well. The Cat, EVENING II. CATS AND KITTENS. Ed. High diddle-diddle, The cat and the fiddle 1 Alice. Hush, you horrible boy ! Ed. What ! won't you have my poem ? Aunt C. We should have too many of them. Cats are too much the fashion in nursery rhymes to begin on the stock; so we must be excused having Pussy either in the well, or up the plum-tree, or even rebuking her three kittens for losing their mittens. Though we will hear Gracie's verses on the naughty kittens, from my old book of copies of favourite verses, the authors of which I cannot discover. THE NAUGHTY KITTENS. Two little kittens, one stormy night. Began to quarrel and then to fight ; Cats and Kittens. 23 One had a mouse, and one had none — This was the way the fight was begun. " 1 11 have that mouse," said the bigger cat. " You '11 have that mouse ? — we'll see about that." " I will have that mouse," said the oldest one. " You shan't have that mouse," said the little one. I told you before 'twas a stormy night When these two little kittens began to fight. The old woman seized her sweeping broom. And swept the two kittens right out of the room. The ground was covered with frost and snow, And the poor little kittens had nowhere to go. So they laid themselves down on the mat at the door, While the old woman finished her sweeping the floor ; And then they crept in, as quiet as mice, All wet with the snow, and as cold as ice. So they found it was better, that stormy night, To lie down and sleep, than to quarrel and fight. Alice. And don't you know, in that delightful book of Mr. Westwood's, Berries and Blossoms — KITTEN GOSSIP. Kitten, kitten, two months old, Woolly snowball, lying snug Curled up in the warmest fold Of this warm hearth-rug, Turn your downy head this way — What is life ? Oh kitten, say. 1 6 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. Edmund. He must have been a horrid little coward ! Aunt C. Most likely he was of a nature quite unfit for school, and these were rough times ; but who knows how much the thoughtless cruelty of that boy may have had to do with his broken spirits ? He grew up and studied the law, and was very happy v/ith some young cousins, with whom, he said, he spent his time in giggling and making giggle. But when an office was vacant, to which one of his relations was going to ^ appoint him, after an examination, he worked himself up into such an agony that a terrible attack of disease came on; and though he lived for many years longer, he could never return to the business of life. He was boarded with a clergyman at Huntingdon, named Unwin ; and when Mr. Unwin was killed by a fall from his horse, his widow continued to take care of Mr. Cowper. They lived first at Olney and then at Weston, and there Cowper gardened, played with his tame hares, wrote delightful letters, and, in especial, wrote verses in a much more simple, natural style than most of those who had gone before him. Properly speaking, that first poem on the Glow-worm is his L The Glow-worm. 17 translation from a scholar named Vincent Bourne, who wrote Latin verses. Alice. You call him a Glow-worm because his was a bright pure light in a dark place ? Aunt C. Yes; in very evil times his voice was always raised to uphold whatever was good, and that in the midst of the utmost sadness of heart. Every- thing seemed dark and hopeless to himself, and yet, instead of grieving other people with his sorrows, he always showed himself playful and cheerful, as long as he had strength of mind or body to hold up against his depression. But we must not leave off sorrowful, and I have still another Glow-worm poem for you. THE PILGRIM'S DREAM; Or, the Star and the Glow-worm. A pilgrim, when the sunny day Had closed upon his weary way, A lodging begged beneath a castle's roof; But him the haughty warder spurned. And from the gate the pilgrim turned. To seek such covert as the field Or heath-besprinkled copse might yield. Or lofty wood, shower proof. i A 1 8 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. He paced along, and, pensively, Halting beneath a shady tree, Whose moss-grown root might serve for couch or Fixed on a star his upward eye ; [seat, Then, from the tenant of the sky. He turned, and watched with kindred look A Glow-worm, in a dusky nook. Apparent at his feet The murmur of a neighbouring stream Induced a soft and slumbrous dream — A pregnant dream, within whose shadowy bounds He recognised the earth-born Star, And that which glittered from afar ; And (strange to witness 1) from the frame Of the ethereal orb, there came Intelligible sounds. Much did it taunt the humbler light. That now, when day was fled, and night Hushed the dark earth — fast closing weary eyes, A very reptile could presume To show her taper in the gloom. As if in rivalship with one Who sate a ruler in his throne Erected in the skies. The Glow-worm. 19 •* Exalted Star !" the Worm replied, •'Abate this unbecoming pride, Or with a less uneasy lustre shine. Thou shrink'st as momently thy rays Are mastered by the breaking haze ; While neither mist, nor thickest cloud That shapes in heaven its murky shroud, Hath power to injure mine. ^ But not for this do I aspire To match the spark of local fire, That at my will burns on the dewy lawn. With thy acknowledged glories — No 1 Yet, thus upbraided, I may show What favours do attend me here. Till, like thyself, I disappear Before the purple dawn." When this in modish guise was said. Across the welkin seemed to spread A boding sound — for aught but sleep unfit ! Hills quaked — the rivers backward ran — That Star, so proud of late, looked wan. And reeled with visionary stir In the blue depth, like Lucifer Cast headlong to the pit ! \ 20 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. Fire raged, and when the spangled floor Of ancient ether was no more, New heavens succeeded, by the dream brought forth : And ail the happy souls that rode Transfigured through that fresh abode, Had heretofore, in humble trust. Shone meekly 'mid their native dust. The Glow-worms of the earth ! This knowledge, from an angel's voice Proceeding, made the heart rejoice Of him who slept upon the open lea ; Waking at morn, he murmured not, And, till life's journey closed, the spot Was to the pilgrim's soul endeared. Where by that dream he had been cheered Beneath the shady tree. Wordsworth. EdmuncL There 's the reptile again. Alice. I don't think I quite understand it. Edmund. What 's the welkin } Alice. The sky — wolken in German. That's not the difficulty to me. Was the star proud } Aunt C I suppose so. The fable takes the star as a thing temporal — proud of its exaltation, and displeased to see any light like its own on earth. The z ^___^ _^ The Glow-worm. 19 " Exalted Star !" the Worm replied, "Abate this unbecoming pride, Or with a less uneasy lustre shine. Thou shrink'st as momently thy rays Are mastered by the breaking haze ; While neither mist, nor thickest cloud That shapes in heaven its murky shroud, Hath power to injure mine. *' But not for this do I aspire To match the spark of local fire, That at my will burns on the dewy lawn. With thy acknowledged glories — No 1 Yet, thus upbraided, I may show What favours do attend me here. Till, like thyself, I disappear Before the purple dawn." When this in modish guise was said, Across the welkin seemed to spread A boding sound — for aught but sleep unfit ! Hills quaked — the rivers backward ran — That Star, so proud of late, looked wan, And reeled with visionary stir In the blue depth, like Lucifer Cast headlong to the pit ! 20 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. Fire raged, and when the spangled floor Of ancient ether was no more, New heavens succeeded, by the dream brought forth : And all the happy souls that rode Transfigured through that fresh abode, Had heretofore, in humble trust. Shone meekly 'mid their native dust, The Glow-worms of the earth ! This knowledge, from an angel's voice Proceeding, made the heart rejoice Of him who slept upon the open lea ; Waking at morn, he murmured not. And, till life's journey closed, the spot Was to the pilgrim's soul endeared. Where by that dream he had been cheered Beneath the shady tree. Wordsworth. EdmuncL There 's the reptile again. Alice. I don't think I quite understand it. Edmund. What 's the welkin } Alice. The sky — wolken in German. That's not the difficulty to me. Was the star proud } Aunt C. I suppose so. The fable takes the star as a thing temporal — proud of its exaltation, and displeased to see any light like its own on earth. The THE GLOW•WOR^^. The GloW'Worm. 21 Glow-worm replies that at least her light is not liable to be obscured by vapour and mist ; though she dares not compare herself to the star, still she will do her best, till both shall disappear in the perfect day. Then suddenly comes the end of all things, and the reward of humility, when all the happy souls Had heretofore in humble trust Shone meekly through their native dust, The Glow-worms of the earth. Alice. That is like my favourite text, *' The path of the just is the shining light, that shineth more and more and more unto the perfect day." Aunt C. The true lesson of the Glow-worm ! Alice. Please, Aunt Charlotte, set us some subject to find verses for to-morrow. Aunt C. Very well. The Cat. EVENING II. CATS AND KITTENS. Ed. High diddle-diddle, The cat and the fiddle ! Alice. Hush, you horrible boy! Ed. What ! won't you have my poem ? Aunt C. We should have too many of them. Cats are too much the fashion in nursery rhymes to begin on the stock; so we must be excused having Pussy either in the well, or up the plum-tre^ or even rebuking her three kittens for losing their mittens. Though we will hear Grade's verses on the naughty kittens, from my old book of copies of favourite verses, the authors of which I cannot discover. THE NAUGHTY KITTENa Two little kittens, one stormy night, B^an to quarrel and then to fight ; Cats and Kittens. 23 One had a mouse, and one had none — This was the way the fight was begun. " I '11 have that mouse," said the bigger cat ** You '11 have that mouse ? — we'll see about that." " I will have that mouse," said the oldest one. " You shan't have that mouse," said the little one. I told you before 'twas a stormy night When these two little kittens began to fight. The old woman seized her sweeping broom. And swept the two kittens right out of the room. The ground was covered with frost and snow. And the poor little kittens had nowhere to go. So they laid themselves down on the mat at the door, While the old woman finished her sweeping the floor ; And then they crept in, as quiet as mice, All wet with the snow, and as cold as ice. So they found it was better, that stormy night, To lie down and sleep, than to quarrel and fight. Alice. And don't you know, in that delightful book of Mr. Westwood's, Berries and Blossoms — KITTEN GOSSIP. Kitten, kitten, two months old, Woolly snowball, lying snug Curled up in the warmest fold Of thie warm hearth-rug. Turn your downy head this way — What is life ? Oh kitten, say. 24 yfunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. i •* Life," said the kitten, twitching her eyes. And twitching her tail in a droll surprise — " Life ? Oh, it 's racing over the floor. Out of the window and in at the door, Now on the chair-back, now on the table, 'Mid balls of cotton and skeins of silk, And crumbs of sugar and jugs of milk, All so cosy and comfortable. It 's patting the little dog's ears, and leaping Round him and over him while he 's sleeping, Waking him up in a sore affright. Then off and away like a flash of light, Scouring and scampering out of sight. Life ? Oh, it's rolling over and over On the summer green turf and budding clover. Chasing the shadows, as fast they run Down the garden paths in the mid-day sun, Prancing and gambolling, brave and bold. Climbing the tree-stems, scratching the mould- That 's life," said the kitten two months old. Kitten, kitten, come sit on my knee, And lithe and listen, kitten, to me. One by one, oh, one by one. The shy, swift shadows sweep over the sun. Daylight dieth, and kittenhood 's done. And kitten, oh I the rain and the wind, For cathood cometh with careful mind, Cats and Kittens. 25 And grave cat duties follow behind. Hark ! there 's a sound you cannot hear, I '11 whisper its meaning in your ear — MICE (The kitten stared with her great green eyes, And twitched her tail in a queer surprise) — MICE. No more tit-bits, dainty and nice, No more mischief and no more play, But watching by night and sleeping by day. Prowling wherever the foe doth lurk, Very short commons and very sharp work ; And kitten, oh I the hail and the thunder. That 's a black cloud, but a blacker 's under. Hark ! — but you *11 fall from my knee, I fear. When I whisper that awful word in your ear — R.R.R-RATS (The kitten's heart beat with great pit-pats. But her whiskers quivered, and from their sheath Flashed out the sharp, white, pearly teeth) — R-R-R-RATS— The scorn of dogs, but the terror of cats. The cruellest foes and the fiercest fighters. The sauciest thieves and the sharpest biters ; But, kitten, I see you 've a stoutish heart, So courage, and play an honest part Use well your paws, and strengthen your claws. And sharpen your teeth, and stretch your jaws ; 26 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. Then woe to the tribe of pickers and stealers, Nibblers and gnawers and evil dealers. But now that you know life 's not precisely The thing your fancy pictured so nicely, Off and away I race over the floor, Out at the window and in at the door, Roll on the turf and play in the sun. Ere night-time cometh, and kittenhood 's done. T. Westwood. Alice. I supppose it is an allegory of growing up. Aunt C. You can have it in another aspect in the "Kitten and Falling Leaves," at which you must fancy Mr. Wordsworth looking, with his baby-daughter Dora in his arms. Alice. I know he was called a Lake poet, and lived between 1770 and 1850, but that's all. Aunt C. The name of Lake poets was given to the three friends, William Wordsworth, Robert Southey, and Samuel Taylor Coleridge, because they lived in the Lake country in Westmoreland. Two of them married sisters, and the whole lives of Wordsworth and Southey were spent among those mountains. Words- worth knew every rock and pass, loved every tree and flower, and saw deep meanings in ever}'thing. He Cats and Kittens. 27 delighted, too, in the homely, friendly people, and talked and lived much with them. I told you that Cowper made a great step in making poetry simple and easy, and Wordsworth still more made it a principle that the poetry should be in the thought, and that the words had better be as plain and simple and untwisted as possible. Ed. Sensible man ! Alice. I hope he was happier than poor Cowper. Aunt C. He was as happy a man as ever lived, always thinking noble and sweet thoughts, and pour- ing them out in flowing words, feeling that he was doing his work in helping people to trace God's hand in everything, and loved and honoured by all. It was thought a great thing to see that fine venerable old man; so, though some of his verses are sometimes laughed at and thought childish, and others may be lengthy and tiresome, he has really done much for English taste in poetry. These verses were written when he was a comparatively young man. Let us have them, Alice. Alice. Only, first, what is a parachute .^ Aunt C. A thing somewhat like an umbrella, 28 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. unclosed but not fastened, open. It was taken up in balloons to descend in, opening as it fell, so as to break the shock. THE KITTEN AND THE FALLING LEAVE& See the kitten on the wall, Sporting with the leaves that fall ; Withered leaves — one — two — ^and three, From the lofty elder tree. Through the calm and frosty air Of this morning, bright and fair, Eddying round and round, they sink Softly, lowly ; one might think. From the motions that are made. Every little leaf conveyed Sylph or fairy hither tending, To this lower world descending. Each invisible and mute In his wavering parachute. But the kitten, how she starts, Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts, First at one, and then its fellow. Just as light and just as yellow. There are many now — now one. Now they stop, and there are none. What intenseness of desire In her upturned eye of fire ; Cats and Kittens. 29 With a tiger-leap half way, Now she meets the coming prey, Lets it go as fast, and then Has it in her power again. Now she works with three or four, Like an Indian conjuror. Quick as he in feats of art, Far beyond in joy of heart ; Were her antics played in th* eye Of a thousand standers by, Clapping hands, with shout and stare, What would little Tabby care For the plaudits of the crowd ? Far too happy to be proud, Over-wealthy in the treasure Of her own exceeding pleasure. Wordsworth. Grace. How pretty ! How like the kitten ! Aunt C. This is only a portion of the poem. You would be less interested in the rest ; but I am going to read you the conclusion, where Wordsworth says he wishes ever to " Keep the sprightly soul awake. And have faculties to take. Even from things by sorrow taught. Matter for a jocund thought ; 30 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. Spite of care, and spite of grief, To gambol with life's falling leaf! >* Alice. He hopes to go on finding the way to be cheerful^ even among what is sad, like the leaves in autumn. Aunt C. The same thought was with his brother- in-laW| Southey, much later in life. Here are a few verses I am very fond of, from a longer poem, sup- posed to be an answer to Mrs. Southey, when she thought her husband was writing verses livelier and more nonsensical than suited his years. AUTUMN CHEERFULNESS. Nay, mistress mine (I made reply). The autumn hath its flowers. Nor ever is the sky more gay Than in its evening hours. Our good old cat. Earl Tom le Magne, Upon a warm spring day. Even like a kitten at its sport, Is sometimes seen to play. That sense which held me back in youth From all intemperate gladness. That same good instinct bids me shun Unprofitable sadness. Cats and Kittens. 31 Nor marvel you, if I prefer On playful themes to sing ; The October grove hath brighter tints Than summer or than spring. For o'er the leaves, before they fall, Such hues hath Nature thrown, That the woods bear, in sunless days, A sunshine of their own. SOUTHEY. Alice. Tom le Magne, Tom the Great, like Charle- magne* I like that. Grace. But there 's only one verse about a cat Aunt C. To console you, here is an account, written by Cowper, of an adventure of his cat. It is written in a sort of mock-heroic style — that is, playfully making a great deal of a very little. THE RETIRED CAT. A Poet's Cat, sedate and grave As poet well could wish to have. Was much addicted to enquire For nooks to which she might retire, And where, secure as mouse in chink, She might repose, or sit and think. Sometimes ascending, debonair, An apple tree, or lofty pear, 32 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. Lodged with convenience in the fork, She watched the gardener at his work : Sometimes her ease and solace sought In an old empty watering-pot ; There, nothing wanting save a fan To seem some nymph in her sedan, Appareird in exactest sort, And ready to be borne to court But love of change it seems has place Not only in our wiser race ; Cats also feel, as well as we. That passion's force, and so did she. Her climbing, she began to find, Exposed her too much to the wind, And the old utensil of tin Was cold and comfortless within : She therefore wished, instead of those. Some place of more serene repose, Where neither cold might come, nor air Too rudely wanton with her hair, And sought it in the likeliest mode Within her master's snug abode. A drawer, it chanced, at bottom lined With linen of the softest kind, A drawer impending o'er the rest. Half open, in the topmost chest. Of depth enough, and none to spare, Invited her to slumber there. Cats and Kittens. 33 Puss, with delight beyond expression, Surveyed the scene and took possession. Recumbent at her ease, ere long, And lulled by her own hum-drum song, She left the cares of life behind, And slept as she would sleep her last ; When in came, housewifely inclined. The chambermaid, and shut it fast ; By no malignity impelled. But all unconscious whom it held. Awakened by the shock, cried Puss, " Was ever cat attended thus ! This open drawer was left, I see. Merely to prove a nest for me ; For soon as I was well composed. Then came the maid, and it was closed. How smooth these kerchiefs, and how sweet ! Oh, what a delicate retreat. I will resign myself to rest Till Sol, declining in the west, Shall call to supper, when, no doubt, Susan will come and let me out" The evening came, the sun descended, And Puss remained still unattended. The night roU'd tardily away — With her, indeed, 'twas never day — The sprightly morn her course renewed, The evening grey again ensued, 34 ^uni Charlotte s Poetry Book. And Puss came into mind no more Than if entombed the day before. With hunger pinched, and pinched for room, She now presaged approaching doom, Nor slept a single wink, or purred, Conscious of jeopardy incurred. That night, by chance, the Poet, watching. Heard an inexplicable scratching ; His noble heart went pit-a-pat, And to himself he said, " What 's that ?" He drew the curtain at his side. And forth he peep'd, but nothing spied ; Yet by his ear directed, guessed Something imprisoned in the chest, And, doubtful what, with prudent care, Resolved it should continue tliere. At length a voice which well he knew — A long and melancholy mew, Saluting his poetic ears. Consoled him and dispell'd his fears. He left his bed, he trod the floor, And 'gan in haste the drawers explore, The lowest first, and without stop The rest in order, to the top ; For 'tis a truth well known to most, That whatsoever thing is lost. We seek it, ere it come to light, In every cranny but the right Cats and Kittens. 35 — Forth skipp'd the Cat, not now replete, As erst, with airy self-conceit, Nor in her own fond apprehension A theme for all the world's attention : But modest, sober, cured of all Her notions hyperbolical, And wishing for a place of rest Anything rather than a chest Then stepped the Poet into bed With this reflection in his head : — Beware of too sublime a sense Of your own worth and consequence ! The man who dreams himself so great, And his importance of such weight, That all around, in all that 's done. Must move and act for him alone. Will learn, in school of tribulation, The folly of his expectation. COWPER. Ed. You may well say it is a great deal of a very litde. Aunt C. But It is very gracefully told. Grace. And Puss must have looked delightful in the watering-pot, though I can't think how she got in. But what does ** debonair " mean ? 9 36 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. Aunt C. Divide it into three French words, de ban air. It means graceful. Alice. Is there any other cat poem ? Aunt C Yes, an elegy on the death of a cat, who was drowned at least 1 50 years ago. Ed. Some woman wrote iL Aunt C. No, it was a great scholar. Fellow of Pem- broke College at Cambridge, Mr. Thomas Gray. The cat belonged to Horace Walpole. He was the son of the great Sir Robert Walpole, and lived at Straw- berry Hill, a place which he had filled with curiosities of all sorts ; so that it was a show and a wonder to his friends in London. He was fond of old and new books, and liked to have learned, clever, and amusing people about him. Gray was a very shy man, happier in his rooms at Cambridge, or at home with his old mother and aunt, than in the gay, talking world ; but he and Horace Walpole were old school and college friends, and Walpole made Gray's poetry known. So when the Persian cat at Strawberry Hill drowned herself by trying to catch some gold-fish, these verses were written by Gray. J Cats and Kittens. 37 ON THE DEATH OF A CAT. 'Twas on a lofty vase's side, Where China's gayest art had dyed The azure flowers that blow ; Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Selima, reclined, Gazed on the gulf below. Her conscious tail her joy declared : Her fair round face, the snowy beard, The velvet of her paws, Her coat, that with the tortoise vies. The ears of jet, and emerald eyes. She saw ; and purred applause. Still had she gazed ; but, 'midst the tide, Two angel forms were seen to glide. The Genii of the stream : Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue Through richest purple to the view Betrayed a golden gleam. The hapless nymph with wonder saw : A whisker first, and then a claw. With many an ardent wish, She stretched in vain to reach the prize. What female heart can gold despise ? What Cat 's averse to fish } 38 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. Presumptuous maid ! with looks intent Again she stretched, again she bent, Nor knew the gulf between. (Malignant fate sat by and smiled.) The slippery verge her feet beguiled, She tumbled headlong in. Eight times emerging from the flood She mewed to every watVy god, Some speedy aid to send. No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirred, Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard. A fav'rite has no friend ! From hence, ye beauties, undeceived. Know, one false step is ne'er retrieved. And be with caution bold. Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts is lawful prize, Nor all, that glisters, gold. Gray. Alice. I see what you mean ; it is not nearly so simple as the verses by Cowper or Wordsworth. Ed. He makes a very odd description of the fish. Angel forms indeed, and Tyrian hue ! That is purple. Alice. There are dark purple marks on the young Cats and Kittens. 39 ones. Besides, he means that this is as the fish appeared to poor Selima. Ed. I supposed she emerged eight times because she had nine lives ; but why should she mew to watery gods ? Aunt C. Because classical allusions were the taste of the time. Alice. Nereids are river nymphs. Ed. Fancy a Nereid, or a Dolphin either, in a china bowl! Aunt C. Oh, you must not be too critical on what was meant as a playful lamentation. You know the story of the Dolphin that carried Arion to shore when he was thrown overboard. Alice. They are the prettiest, smoothest verses we have had. Aunt C. Gray was remarkable for the exceeding polish he gave every line. We feel the habit even in this playful piece, and far more in his grand ones. Now, considering the moaning wind I hear, I am afraid A Rainy Day will be our most suitable subject for to-morrow. EVENING III. WIND AND RAIN. Ed. I Ve got something jolly for you this time. Aunt C. What ! Edmund has condescended Alice. Oh, Aunt, we have been so glad to have to hunt out our poems. It would have been such a long dull day without ! Aunt C. You would have had to sing, like the clown in "Twelfth Night"— " When that I was, and a little tiny boy, With heigh-ho, the wind and the rain ; A foolish thing was but a toy. For the rain it raineth every day. " A great while ago the world begun, With heigh-ho, the wind and the rain ; But that *s all one, our play is done, For the rain it raineth every day." Shakspere, IVind and Rain. 41 Grace. What does it mean ? Aunt C. I doubt whether the clown could tell you, or Shakspere either. Ed. Well, I know what mine means. THE WIND IN A FROLIC. The wind one morning sprang up from sleep, Saying, " Now for a frolic, now for a leap. Now for a madcap galloping chace, I '11 make a commotion in every place.*' So it swept with a bustle right through a big town. Creaking the signs, and scattering down Shutters, and whisking with merciless squalls Old women's bonnets and gingerbread stalls. There never was heard a much lustier shout As the apples and oranges trundled about ; And the urchins that stand, with their thievish eyes. For ever on watch, ran off each with a prize. Then away to the field it went, blustering and humming. And the cattle all wondered whatever was coming ; It plucked by the tails the grave matronly cows. And toss'd the colts' manes all about their brows ; Till, offended at such an unusual salute. They all turned their backs, and stood silent and mute. 42 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. So on it went capering and playing its pranks. Whistling with reeds on the broad river banks, Puffing the birds as they sat on the spray, Or the traveller grave on the king's highway ; It was not too nice to hustle the bags Of the b^gar, and flutter his dirty rags. 'Twas so bold that it feared not to play its joke With the doctor^s wig or the gentleman's cloak. Through the forest it roared, and cried gaily, ^ Now, You sturdy old oaks, I '11 make you bow." And it made them bow without more ado, As it crack'd their great branches through and through ; Then it rushed like a monster o'er cottage and farm. Striking the dwellers with sudden alarm, And they ran out like bees in a midsummer swarm. There were dames with their kerchiefs tied over their caps. To see if their poultry were free from mishaps. The turkeys they gabbled, the geese screamed aloud, And the hens crept to roost in a terrified crowd. There was rearing of ladders, and logs laying on Where the thatch from the roof threatened soon to be gone ; But the wind had swept on, and had met in a lane With a schoolboy who panted and struggled in vain, For it toss'd him and twirled him, then passed, and he stood With his hat in a pool, and his shoes in the mud. Wind and Rain. 43 Then away went the wind in its holiday glee, And now it was far on the billowy sea, And the lordly ships felt its staggering blow. And the little boats darted to and fro. But lo ! it was night, and it sank to rest On the sea-bird's rock in the gleaming west. Laughing to think, in its fearful fun, How little of mischief it had done ! Wm. Howitt. Aunt C. Thank you, Edmund. How much William Howitt must have enjoyed writing that ! A/ice. Who was he ? Auni C. A kindly Quaker gentleman, very fond of country life. I do not think there were many events in his history, and he died so recently that it has not been written; but if I remember the news- paper statement aright, he and his brother died the same day — one in England and one abroad. He wrote several books on country life, and one called The Boys Country Book is most diverting, and professes to give his own adventures when a lad living on a large farm. But I have another set of verses here, for Gracie, showing what the wind can 44 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. do. They were written by Mr. Keble, when a young- man. Alice. The author of TJte Christian Year f Aunt C. Yes. He was a great lover of children, though he never had any of his own, and was especially fond of his nephew and nieces. Now, before anyone knew of him as a great and good man and poet, he was with some of these children at his father's house at Fairford, in Gloucestershire. There is a rookery round the field, and the Wind in a frolic seems to have done much damage to the rooks* nests. He is himself the Uncle John of the poem, which he seems to have written to show the children that '* 'tis an ill wind that blows nobody good." THE ROOK. There was a young Rook, and he lodged in a nook Of Grandpapa's tallest elm-tree ; There came a strong wind, not at all to his mind. All out of the north-west countree. With a shrill piping sound this wind whistled round. The boughs they all danced high and low ; Rock, rock went the nest where the birds were at rest, Till over and over they go. IVind and Rain. 45 Uncle John, walking round, saw the Rook on the ground, And smooth'd it, and wished to revive ; Ann, Robert, and Hill, they all tried their skill, In vain — ^the poor Rook would not live. And if, in your fun, round the orchard you run. You really would wonder to see How sticks, moss, and feather are strewn by the weather Beneath each old racketting tree. Tis a very bad wind, as in proverbs we find, The wind that blows nobody good ; I have read it in books, yet sure the young Rooks Would deny it to-day if they could. They sure would deny, but they cannot well try ; Their cawing they have not yet learned ; And 'tis just as well not, for a fancy I Ve got How the wind to some use may be turned. Do you see Martha Hunt, how she bears all the brunt Of the chilly, damp, blustering day ; How gladly she picks all the littering sticks, Her kettle will soon boil away. How snug she will sit by the fire and knit. While Daniel her fortune will praise ; The wind roars away ; " Master Wind," they will say, " We thank you for this pretty blaze." 1 46 Au7it Charlotte s Poetry Book. Then, spite of the Rooks, what we read in the books Is true, and the storm has done good ; It seems bard, I own, when the nests get o'erthrown. But Daniel and Martha get wood. J. Keblx. Grace. The lady in the verses Alice found for me did not think of that when she was cross with the rain. THE PICNIC. A lady a party of pleasure made, And she planned her scheme full well ; And early and late this party filled The head of the demoiselle. It rained all day, and it rained all night, It rained when the morning broke. It rained when the maiden went to sleep, And it rained when she awoke. Peevish and fretful the maiden grew When the hour of noon was gone ; But the merry clouds knew nothing of that, And the rain went pouring on. The weather has got no business with us. And we have none with the weather ; And temper and weather are different things. But they always go together. IVind and Rain. 47 Oh, anger and beauty, my lady dear, Will never agree to share The little white forehead that lifts its arch Through the parting of thy hair. The mists are strewn all over the hills, And the valleys are ringing with floods, And the heavy drops on the flat, broad leaves Are making strange sounds in the woods. Angels are round thee, and Heaven above, And thy soul is alive within ; Shall a rainy day and a cloudy sky Make a Christian heart to sin ? Oh, wait for the sunset's dusky gold. On the side of your mountain glen. And seek the lone seat where the foxgloves grow, And weep for thy folly then. F. W. Faber. Aunt C. I think she would catch a very bad cold out on that wet seat. But it is a very wise lesson. Alice. I hope I shall remember it the next wet day. Aunt C. It is by Frederick William Faber, written in his earlier days, long before the hymns by which he is best known, the beautiful " Pilgrims of the Night," and " O Paradise." Alice. Here is a very doleful one of Longfellow's. 48 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. THE RAINY DAY. The day is cold, and dark, and dreary ; It rains, and the wind is never weary ; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary. My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ; It rains, and the wind is never weary ; My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, And the days are dark and dreary. Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining ; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ; Thy fate is the common fate of all. Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary. Longfellow. Grace. He begins as if he needed a scolding as much as the other lady who could not have her picnic ! Ed. And he does not end much better ! Alice. No ; he does not make the best of it. Aunt C. I cannot tell you much about Mr. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, as, happily, he is still alive. He is an American, as no doubt Alice knows, and all Wind and Rain. 49 he writes is thoughtful and earnest. You have another much more cheerful rainy day of his, Alice, decidedly making the best of it. RAIN IN SUMMER. How beautiful is the rain! After the dust and heat, In the broad and fiery street. In the narrow lane, How beautiful is the rain! How it clatters along the roofs, Like the tramp of hoofs ! How it gushes and struggles out From the throat of the overflowing spout ! Across the window pane It pours and pours; And swift and wide. With a muddy tide, Like a river down the gutter roars The rain, the welcome rain! The sick man from his chamber looks At the twisted brooks; He can feel the cool Breath of each little pool ; His fevered brain Grows calm again, And he breathes a blessing on the rain. 50 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. From the neighbouring school Come the boys. With more than their wonted noise And commotion ; And down the wet streets Sail their mimic fleets. Till the treacherous pool Engulphs them in its whirling And turbulent ocean. In the country on every side, Where far and wide, Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide. Stretches the plain, To the dry grass and the drier grain How welcome is the rain ! In the furrowed land The toilsome and patient oxen stand ; Lifting the yoke-encumbered head, With their dilated nostrils spread, They silently inhale The clover-scented gale. And the vapours that arise From the well-watered and smoking soil. From this rest in the furrow after toil, Their large and lustrous ty^ Seem to thank the Lord, More than man's spoken word. JVind and Rain. 51 Near at hand, From under the sheltering trees, The farmer sees His pastures and his fields of grain, As they bend their tops To the numberless beating drops Of the incessant rain. He counts it as no sin That he sees therein Only his own thrift and gain. These, and far more than these. The poet sees! He can behold Aquarius old ^Walking the fenceless fields of air. And from each ample fold Of the clouds about him roU'd Scattering everywhere The showery rain, As the farmer scatters his grain. He can behold Things manifold That have not yet been wholly told — Have not been wholly sung nor said. For his thought, that never stops, Follows the water-drops Down to the graves of the dead, Down through chasms and gulfs profound, 52 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. To the dreary fountain-head Of lakes and rivers underground ; And sees them when the rain is done. On the bridge of colours seven. Climbing up once more to heaven Opposite the setting sun. Thus the seer. With vision clear, Sees forms appear and disappear. In the perpetual round of strange Mysterious change From birth to death, from death to birth, From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth. Till glimpses more sublime Of things unseen before, Unto his wondering eyes reveal The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel Turning for evermore In the rapid and rushing river of Time. Longfellow. Grace. Who is Aquarius ? Aunt C. The Water-bearer — the constellation or cluster of stars where the sun is in the rainy spring months, so that he is the emblem of beneficent showers. Can my little Gracie tell what the bridge of colours seven means ? Wind and Rain. 53 Alice. Mounting up to heaven, Gracie, when the sun comes out after rain. Grace. Oh ! the Rainbow ! How pretty that is ! Aunt C. Now you shall see what people get by straggling out on wet days. Here is Cowper^s description of a walk he took, or tried to take, with Mrs. Unwin, in the winter of 1782. THE DISTRESSED TRAVELLERS; OR, LABOUR IN VAIN. L I sing of a journey to Clifton We would have performed if we could. Without cart or barrow to lift on Poor Mary and me through the mud. Slee-sla-slud, Stuck in the mud, Oh, it is pretty to wade through a flood. II. So away we went, slipping and sliding, Hop, hop, d la mode de deux frogs ; Tis near as good walking as riding When ladies are dress'd in their clogs. Wheels, no doubt, Go briskly about, But they clatter and rattle, and make such a rout 54 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. III. Slu. Well, now, I protest it is charming, How finely the weather improves ! That cloud, though, is rather alarming — How slowly and stately it moves ! He. Pshaw ! never mind, Tis not in the wind, We are travelling south, and shall leave it behind. IV. She. I am glad we are come for an airing. For folks may be pounded and penn*d Until they grow rusty, not caring To stir half-a-mile to an end. The longer we stay, The longer we may, Tis a folly to think about weather or way. V. But now I begin to be frighted ; If I fall, what a way I should roll ! I am glad that the bridge was indicted — Stop I stop ! I am sunk in a hole. He. Nay I never care, 'Tis a common affair, You '11 not be the first that has set a foot there. VL She, Let me breathe now a little, and ponder On what it were better to do ; JVind and Rain. 55 That terrible lane I see yonder I think we shall never get through. He. So think I, But, by-the-bye, We never shall know if we never shall try. VII. She. But should we get there, how shall we get home ? What a terrible deal of bad road we have past, Slipping and sliding, and if we should come To a difficult stile, I am ruined at last — Oh, this lane ! Now it is plain That struggling and striving is labour in vain. VIII. He. Stick fast there, while I go and look. She. Don't go away, for fear I should fall I He. I have examined it every nook. And what you have here is a sample of all. Come, wheel round, The dirt we have found Would be an estate at a farthing a pound ! W. COWPER. Alice. Fun a hundred years old, or nearly so, and quite fresh still ! AufU C. Here, too, is a poem by Mr. Bourdillon, defending the much-abused east wind, and showing that it is by no means a wind that blows nobody good. 56 ^unt Charlotte s Poetry Book. THE EAST WIND. An Angel I come, at the bidding of God, But I leave no bowers of the Blest, With flowers that follow me strewing the sod. As the bountiful winds of the west Rather a sword in my hand I bring, And a blast in my terrible breath, To slay the warm life of the infant Spring With a chill from the presence of Death. The bare trees shiver, the budded sigh For their first-bom, never to blow, While they linger unclad, as the spring goes by. Till a thin late greenery grow. The primrose face, and the violet, Hide from my cold keen kiss ; And the butterfly droops, and would fain lie yet In his late-left chrysalis. Yet kindly the forward flowers I keep. Lest untimely their day be done ; And the blue bright heaven my broad wings sweep Of the clouds that grudge them the sun. And merrily, merrily, over the sea. The sailor to port I bring ; And cheerily, cheerily, over the lea, In the ploughman's ears I sing. IVind and Rain. 57 And the earth's warm heart, that was softened with And saddened with days of rain, [snows, I rouse from her weeping and dreaming of woes, And brace her to bearing again. Yet little of favour I find of men, Or love of the flowers I love. For I linger not to drowse in the glen. Nor to dream in the shadowy grove. And in vain I woo in the flowery wood ; Yet never I bow to despair ; But I break away, as a brave heart should, From the places that scorn my care. And out and away to the bare bleak downs I rush, and the open sky, My only lover that never frowns, As the wild winds whistle by. F. W. BOURDILLON. EVENING IV. THE BUTTERFLTS BALL, & THE PEACOCK AT HOME. Alice. You never proposed any subject for to-night, Aunt Charlotte. Aunt C. Let us look into the portfolio, and see what drawing comes first to hand. A/tce. " Guests assembling for the Butterfly's ball." Oh, I know that Grace. Please say it, Alice. Alice. I will ; but first, Auntie, did anyone write it who is worth knowing about ? Aunt C. Yes, certainly; Mr. Roscoe was a dis- tinguished writer some eighty years ago. He was a market-gardener's son at Liverpool, and, as a lad, used to work in the potato fields with his father, but he read as much as he could, and was very fond of poetry. He thought that if he were a bookseller he The Butterfly's Ball. 59 should be able to read as much as he chose, and he served in a shop for a month ; but he found handling books did not mean reading them, so he became an attorney's clerk, and, while in that situation, he and some other youths managed, by getting up early in the morning, to find time to learn Greek, Latin, French, and Italian. He became a lawyer, but he was such an admirable and elegant scholar in modern languages, and wrote and thought so clearly, that he lived chiefly by authorship. His books on Italian history are especially noted, and he was also a great botanist He died in the year 1831, at seventy-eight years old. I suppose he wrote these pretty fanciful verses to amuse his children. THE BUTTERFLY'S BALL. Come, take up your hats, and away let us haste To the Butterfly's ball and the Grasshopper's feast ; The trumpeter Gadfly has summoned the crew, And the revels are now only waiting for you. On the smooth shaven grass, by the side of the wood. Beneath a broad oak that for ages has stood. See the children of earth, and the tenants of air, For an evening's amusement together repair. 6o Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. And there came the Beetle, so blind and so black, Who carried the Emmet, his friend, on his back ; And there was the Gnat, and the Dragon-fly too, With all their relations, g^en, orange, and blue. And there came the Moth in his plumage of down. And the Hornet in jacket of yellow and brown, Who with him the Wasp, his companion, did bring. But they promised that evening to lay by their sting. And the sly little Dormouse crept out of his hole. And led to the feast his blind brother, the Mole ; And the Snail, with his horns peeping out of his shell, Came from a great distance, the length of an ell A mushroom their table, and on it was laid A water-dock leaf, which a table-cloth made ; The viands were various, to each of their taste. And the Bee brought his honey to sweeten the feast There, close on his haunches, so solemn and wise. The Frog from a corner looked up to the skies ; And the Squirrel, well pleased such diversions to see. Sat cracking his nuts overhead in a tree. Then out came the Spider, with fingers so fine, To show his dexterity on the tight line ; From one branch to another his cobwebs he slung. Then as quick as an arrow he darted along. The Butterfly's Ball. 6i With step so majestic, the Snail did advance. And promised the gazers a minuet to dance ; But they all laugh'd so loud that he puU'd in his head, And went in his own little chamber to bed. Then as evening gave way to the shadows of night, The watchman, the Glow-worm, came out with his light. Then home let us hasten while yet we can see, For no watchman is waiting for you and for me. ROSCOE. Ed. What business had the Frog and Snail and Dormouse there ? Grace. And Moles aren't blind. Papa showed me two bright little eyes down under their fur. Alice. I don't suppose Mr. Roscoe meant it for a lesson in natural history. And it is just the way a Spider does hang at the end of his thread, spreading out his legs, which have really little claws at the end. Grace. But what is a minuet ? Aunt C. A very grand and stately dance, which was performed by one couple before the whole assembly, the gentleman with his hat in his hand. Alice. Did you ever see it, Aunt "i 62 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. Aunt C. Only so far as that I learnt a few steps of it It was thought to give young ladies a good deportment Here is a sort of rival poem to the Butterfly, written by a lady, Mrs. Dorset; not long after. She has been much more careful to let her Peacock only invite the bird community. THE PEACOCK AT HOME. The Butterfly's ball, and the Grasshopper's feasts. Excited the spleen of the birds and the beasts. For their mirth and good cheer, of the Bee was the theme, And the Gnat blew his horn as he danced in the beam. 'Twas hummed by the Beetle, 'twas buzzed by the Fly, And sung by the myriads that sport 'neath the sky. The quadrupeds listen'd with sullen displeasure. But the tenants of air were enraged beyond measure. The Peacock displayed his bright plumes to the sun, And, addressing his mates, thus indignant begun : — ** Shall we, like domestic, inelegant fowls. As unpolished as Geese, and as stupid as Owls, Sit tamely at home humdrum with our spouses. While Crickets and Butterflies open their houses ? Shall such mean little creatures pretend to the fashion } Cousin Turkey-cock, well may you be in a passion. If I sufler such insolent airs to prevail, May Juno pluck out all the eyes in my tail. So a feast I will give, and my taste I '11 display, And send out my cards for Saint Valentine's day." The Butterfly's Ball. 63 This determined, six fleet carrier Pigeons went out To invite all the birds to Sir Argus's rout. The nest-loving Turtle-dove sent an excuse, Dame Partlet was sitting, and good Mrs. Goose ; The Turkey, poor soul, was confined to the rip, For all her young brood had just failed with the pip ; And the Partridge was asked, but a neighbour hard by Had engaged a snug party to meet in a pie ; The Wheat-ear declined, recollecting her cousins Last year to a feast were invited by dozens, But alas ! they returned not, and she had no taste To appear in a costume of vine leaves and paste. The Woodcock preferred her lone haunt on the moor. And the traveller Swallow was still on his tour. The Cuckoo, who should have been one of the guests, Was rambling on visits to other birds* nests. But the rest all accepted the kind invitation, And much bustle it caused in the plumed creation. Such ruffling of feathers, such preening of coats, Such chirping, such whistling, such clearing of throats. Such polishing bills, and such oiling of pinions. Had never been known in the biped dominions. The Tailor-bird offered to make up new clothes For all the young birdlings who wished to be beaux. He made for the Robin a doublet of red, And a new velvet cap for the Goldfinch's head. He added a plume to the Wren's golden crest. And spangled with silver the Guinea-fowl's breast ; 64 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. While the Halcyon bent o'er the streamlet to view. How pretty she looked in her boddice of blue ! Thus adorned, they set out for the Peacock's abode With the Guide Indicator, who show'd them the road. From all points of the compass came birds of all feather, And the Parrot can tell who and who were together. There came Lord Cassowary and General Flamingo, And Don Paraquito, escaped from Domingo. From his high rock-built eyrie the Eagle came forth. And the Duchess of Ptarmigan flew from the north. The Grebe and the Eider-duck came up by water With the Swan, who brought out the young Cygnet, her daughter. From his woodland abode came the Pheasant to meet Two kindred, arrived by the last India fleet The one like a Nabob, in habit most splendid. Where gold with each hue of the rainbow was blended. In silver and black, like a fair pensive maid Who mourns for her love, was the other arrayed. The Chough came from Cornwall, and brought up his wife ; The Grouse travelled south from his lairdship in Fife ; The Bunting forsook her soft nest in the reeds ; And the Widow-bird came, though she still wore her weeds ; Sir John Heron of the lakes strutted in a grand /tw/ But no card had been sent to the pilfering Daw, As the Peacock kept up his progenitors' quarrel, Which iEsop relates about cast-off apparel — For birds are like men in their contests together. And in questions of right will dispute for a feather. The Butterfly's Ball. 65 The Peacock imperial, the pride of his race, Received all his guests with an infinite grace — Waved high his blue neck, and his train he displayed, Embroidered with gold, and with emeralds inlaid. Then, with all the gay troop, to the shrubbery repaired. Where the musical birds had a concert prepared. A holly-bush formed the orchestra, and in it Sat the Blackbird, the Thrush, the Lark, and the Linnet. A Bullfinch, a captive, enslaved from the nest, Now escaped from his cage, and with liberty blest. In a sweet mellow tone joined the lessons of art With the accents of nature which flowed from his heart. The Canary, a much-admired foreign musician. Condescended to sing to the fowls of condition ; While the Nightingale warbled and quavered so fine. That they all clapp'd their wings and pronounced it divine. The Skylark in ecstacy sang from a cloud, And Chanticleer crow'd, and the Yaffil laughed loud. The dancing began when the singing was over ; A Dotterel opened the ball with the Plover ; Baron Stork in a waltz was allowed to excel, With his beautiful partner, the fair Demoiselle ; And a newly-fledged Gosling, so spruce and genteel, A minuet swam with young Mr. Teal ; A London-bred Sparrow, a pert forward cit. Danced a reel with Miss Wagtail and little Tom Tit ; And the Sieur Guillemot next performed ixpas seul. While the elderly bipeds were playing a pool. E 66 ^unt Charlotte s Poetry Book. The Dowager Lady Toucan first cut in With old Dr. Buzzard and Admiral Penguin. From Ivy-bush Tower came Dame Owlet the wise, And Counsellor Crossbill sat by to advise. Some birds past their prime, o'er whose heads it was fated Should St. Valentine's pass, and yet be unmated, Look'd on, and remarked that the prudent and sage Were quite overlook'd in this frivolous age ; When birds scarce penfeathered were brought to a rout, Forward chits from the egg-shell but newly come out — That in their youthful days they ne'er witnessed such frisking. And how wrong in the Goldfinch to flirt with the Siskin. So thought Lady Macaw, and her friend, Cockatoo, And the Raven foretold that no good would ensue. They censur'd the Bantam for strutting and crowing In those vile pantaloons, which he fancied looked knowing. And a want of decorum caused many demurs Against the Game Chicken for coming in spurs. Old Alderman Corm'rant, for supper impatient, At the eating-room door for an hour had been stationed ; Till a Magpie at length, the banquet announcing. Gave the signal at length for clamouring and pouncing. At the well-furnished board all were eager to perch, But the little Miss Creepers were left in the lurch. Description must fail, and the pen is unable To describe all the dainties that covered the table. Each delicate viand that taste could denote. Wasps A la sauce piquante^ and flies en compdte; The Butterfly's Ball. 67 Worms and frogs enfriture for the web-footed fowl, And a barbecued mouse was prepared for the Owl. Nuts, grain, fruit, and fish, to regale every palate. And groundsel and chickweed served up in salad. The Razor-bill carved for the famishing group. And the Spoon-bill obligingly ladled the soup. So they filled all their crops with the dainties before 'em. And the tables were cleared with the utmost decorum. When they gaily had caroU'd till peep of the dawn, The Lark gently hinted 'twas time to begone ; And his clarion, so shrill, gave the company warning That Chanticleer scented the gales of the morning. So they chirped in full chorus a friendly adieu, And with hearts quite as light as the plumage that grew On their merry-thought bosoms, away they all flew. Then long live the Peacock, in splendour unmatched. Whose ball shall be talked of by birds yet unhatched ; His praise let the Trumpeter loudly proclaim, And the Goose lend her quill to transmit it to fame. Mrs. Dorset. Grace. Oh, do read it over again, Auntie ; there was so much that I did not understand. Alice. Nor I. Aunt C. Very well. Stop me when you are puzzled. Grace. What does it mean about Juno pulling out his eyes. 68 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. Ed. Why, Argus was a fellow with a hundred eyes* Grace. Edmund ! Ed. In mythology I mean. Juno — she was the Queen Goddess — set him to watch a cow, who was really a transformed lady. He let himself be beguiled, went to sleep, and the cow was lost, which put Juno in such a rage that she pulled out all his eyes, and put them in her peacock's tail. Grace. That is why it calls him Sir Argus. Aunt C. Pavo Argus is really his proper name. A lice. What is the rip ? Aunt C. A local word for the basket-work coop. Ed. And what 's this about the Wheatear } Aunt C. Poor little Wheatears ! they are caught in traps on the Sussex downs, and eaten. They used to be a fashionable dish at Brighton, served up in vine leaves and paste. Grace. The Tailor-bird does not really make any clothes. Ed. No, you little goose ! It only sews leaves together for its nest. I may as well tell you — for I am sure you do not know — that the Halcyon is the Kingfisher. The Butterfly's Ball. 69 Aunt C. Remind me at the end, and I will read you a legend about the Halcyon. Alice. Then the two Pheasants are the gorgeous Gold Pheasant — beautiful creature — and the still hand- somer Silver one, with its pencilled feathers and scarlet patch to its eye. Ed. Widow-birds ought to be Whydah birds, I believe, from Whydah in Africa. I have seen one in a cage. It grows a long black tail, and then loses it, and for a time looks like a sparrow, then like a magpie, in shape. Alice. I am not sure who the Guide Indicator is. Aunt C. The Indicator or Honey-bird of Africa. It cannot get at the honey in the wild bees' nests in hollow trees for itself, but it flies before any person it sees in the wood till it has brought them to the place. Then it flutters about while the nest is being taken, and it is sure to get dead bees, larvae, and droppings of honey enough to make up for its trouble. Alice. What a marvellous instinct! I see no difficulty now till we come to the Yaffil. Ed. That's what the farming men call the great green Woodpecker. It is just like the noise it makes. 70 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. Alice. I am not sure of the Dotterel. Aunt C. It is a wading bird, with a white crescent on its breast. It is well paired with the Plover; but it strikes me that Mrs. Dorset would not have meant our modern waltz, for in the old illustrations Baron Stork and the graceful Demoiselle Crane are standing far apart, each on one leg. Sieur Guillemot must have been put in for his French name, since he is a sea-bird with great web-feet, which he seldom uses. Grace. " A barbecued mouse" — what is that } Aunt C. Split down the middle, opened out, and broiled. It is said to come from the French barbe a queue. Grace. Beard to tail ! How droll. Aunt C. But you have passed a curious little bit of costume marking the date. The Bantam s feathered legs are, you see, compared to pantaloons — trousers which were being brought in by smart young men — the regulation, sober-minded costume being what is only to be seen now in court dress or on footmen. Alice. One more question ; who is the Trumpeter ? Aunt C. A South American, with a wonderful r The Butterfly s Ball. 71 trumpet in his throat, which can be heard for miles. Alice. It is very clever and amusing, and I remem- ber now having heard many lines used as proverbs, such as — For birds are like men in their contests together, And in questions of right will dispute for a feather. Grace. But were you not going to tell us the story of the Kingfisher ? Aunt C. I was going to read you a fragment which Professor Anstice translated from the Latin poet Ovid. An old husband and wife, named Ceyx and Halcyone, had been, according to the old story, long wandering about in search of their children, till Ceyx fell into the river. Then we hear of his wife — Tossed by the waves, the corpse drew nigh, The well-known form that met her eye Confirmed her wild alarms. " Tis he," she cried ; she smote her breast, She tore her tresses and her vest. She spread her trembling arms. " Thus has my love his promise kept," She cried. Upon a bank she leapt, That there the waters checked. 72 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. 'Twas built the stormy waves to tire, And by sustaining all their ire, The harbour to protect. As frantic on the bank she springs. Wondrous to tell, a pair of wings From out her shoulders rise. On novel pinions borne along, With darting movement, plaintive song, Above the wave she flies. And when the lady tried to speak, There issued from her slender beak A melancholy strain. And loth a last embrace to miss, On Ceyx' lips to print a kiss. That beak essayed in vain. Some thought that Ceyx raised his head To meet that kiss, while others said 'Twas but the waves in motion. But time the infidels refuted. For Ceyx, by the gods recruited. Became a god of ocean. Marked with his consort to a feather, And these so linked in love together Are still a wedded pair. The Butterfly s Ball. 73 The billows where they hung their nest, For seven long days of winter rest, The Halcyons' home to spare. Ovid, translated by Prof. Anstice. Grace. Turned into Kingfishers ! Aunt C. So said and sung the ancients. Alice. I knew Halcyon days were very fine ones, but I did not know that it was supposed to be then that the Kingfishers built their nests. Ed. This has been a more amusing evening. But I should like a good, spirited, jolly thing, with some fun and life in it. Aunt C. I will try to please you next time. EVENING V. THE FOX. Grace. Aunt Charlotte, you never told us who was Dame Partlet, who could not come to the Pea- cock's feast Ed. Why, of course, an old hen. Grace. Why is she called Partlet ? Aunt C. I cannot tell you why; but I know that her ancestresses have borne that name these five hundred years, at least Ed. How can you know, Aunt ? Aunt C. On the authority of a certain old gentle- man, who amused great princes, knights, and warriors in the days of King Edward III. Alice. Do you mean Chaucer ? Aunt C. Geoffrey Chaucer, the father of English poetry himself! The Fox. 75 Ed. What can he have to say about cocks and hens ? Aunt C. You shall hear, if you will bring me the volume of Chaucer from the lower shelf. Ed. What funny-looking stuff it is. Aunt C. It will sound less strange to you as I read it I must tell you that Chaucer's chief poem is his " Canterbury Pilgrimage," where he describes a whole company of people of all kinds and ranks, who have met on the way to pay their devotions at the shrine of Sl Thomas of Canterbury. Grace. The Archbishop whom Henry II. 's men murdered ? Aunt C. The same. His tomb was a great place of pilgrimage till the Reformation, and Chaucer de- scribes a large number of people, who, having come together on the way, beguile the journey by telling one another stories. There was a Prioress among them, a very delicate and dainty person ; and her chap- lain—or, as Chaucer calls him, the Nun's priest — tells the tale, of which I am going to read you some portions, leaving out what would not interest you, nor be easily understood.* * The spelling and some words are modernised. 76 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. CHANTICLEAR AND PARTLET. A poor widow, some deal stoopen in age, Was whilom dwelling in narrow cottage Beside a grove standing in a dale. This widow which I tell of in my tale, Since that day in which she was a wife. In patience led a full simple life. Alice. Are you really not changing the words } Aunt C. So far not at all, except to alter thilk into that. Well, the live-stock of this widow and her daughters two were three large sows, three kine, and eke a sheep that hight Mace {hig/it means named^ Grace), also A yard she had enclosed all about With stick^s and a dry ditch without, In which she had a cock named Chanticlear, In all the land of crowing n'ar his peer. His voice was merrier than the merry organ On Mass days that is in the churches gone. Well sickerer was his crowing in his lodge Than is a clock, or any abbey orloge. Alice. That means that he kept time better than any clock. How delightful ! Aunt C. Now for the description of him. I wonder how he would figure in a poultry show. His comb was redder than the fine corall, Embattled, as it were a castle wall ; His bill was black, and as the jet it shone, Like azure were his legg^s and his toen ; His nailis whiter than the lily flower. And like the bumM gold was his colour. This gentil cock had in his governance Seven hens for to do all his pleasance, Of which the fairest hu^d in the throat, Was cleped faire Demoiselle Pertelote. Fairest huM — that is, " fairest coloured." Cleped is " is called." Well, I must leave out Chanticlear's warning dream, and Pertelote s very learned comment, and go on to tell you how he flew into the yard, And eke his hennes all, And with a chuck he *gan them for to call. For he had found a corn lay in the yard ; Right he was, he was no more afeared. He looketh as it were a grim lion. And on his toes he runneth up and down. Him deigned not to set his feet to ground. He chucketh when he hath a corn found. And to him runnan then his wiv^s all. Thus royal as a prince is in his hall, Leave I this Chanticlear in his pasture. And after with I tell his aventure. 78 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. An old col-fox full of sly iniquity, That in the grove had wonnM yeares three, By high imagination forecast, The same night throughout the hedges brast, Into the yard where Chanticlear the fair Was wont, and eke his wiv^s to repair, And in a bed of worths still he lay. Till it was passed undern of the day. Ed. Oh ! there are some words there. Aunt C. A col-fox is a dog-fox. You know a Scottish sheep-dog is a collie. Alice. The worts are vegetables, such as the poor widow had. But what is undern of the day ? Aunt C. Three o'clock. Well — Fair in the sand, to barthe her merrily, Lieth Pertelot, and all her sisters lay Against the sun, and Chanticlear, so free, Sing merrier than the mermaid in the sea. For Phisiologus sayeth sickerly, How that they singcn well and merrily ; And so befel that as he cast his eye. Among the worths, on a butterfly. He was 'ware of this fox that lay full low. Nothing ne list him then for to crow. But cried, " Cok, cok," and up he start, As man who was affrayed in his heart Then Chanticlear, when first he did him spy. The Fox. 79 He would have fled, but that the Fox anon Cried, " Gentle Sir, alas ! what would ye done ? Be ye afraid of me that am your friend ? Now, certes, I were worse than any fiend If I to you would harm or villanie. I am not come your council to espy ; But trowely the cause of my coming Was only for to hearken how ye sing. Save you, I never heard man so sing As did your father in the morwening ; Certes it was of heart all that he sung, And for to make his noise the more strong, He would so pain him that, with both his eyen, He must wink so loud he would crien, And stand upon his tip-toes therewithall, And stretchen forth his neck^ long and small. Now sing then. Sire, for Saint Charity — Let see, can ye your father counterfeit ?" Then Chanticlear his wingis *gan to beat ; As man that could not his treason espy. So was he ravished with his flattery. Then Chanticlear stood high upon his toes, Stretching his neck, and held his eyen close. And 'gan to crowen loud^ for the nonce ; And Dan Russel, the fox, start up at once, And by the throat he seized Chanticlear, And on his back toward the wood him bare I 8o Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. Ed. Unhappy Chanticlear. Alice. But that is not all. Aunt C. By no means. The hens made an uproar which is compared to that of all the unfortunate ladies mentioned in ancient history, and this brought out the *' sely widow and her daughters two, with their men, the maid Malkin, with distaff in her hand, the dogs, Col, Talbot, and Gerland, and even the hogs and cow and calf, making more noise than Jack Straw and all his company." The cock upon the fox's back heard them, and observed that if he were in the place of the fox, with such a prey, in spite of all these pursuers, " I will him eat in faith, and that anon." The Fox answered, " In faith it shall be done." And as he spake the word, all suddenly The cock flew from his mouth deliverly. And high upon a tree he flew anon ! Chaucer. Ed. Ha ! ha ! Chanticlear had learnt his game, and made him open his mouth. Aunt C. Yes ; and though the Fox assured him that he had been carried out with no wicked intent, Chanti- clear had grown too wise to be beguiled again. Alice. Who is Phisiologus ? The Fox. 8 1 Aunt C. A general name for physiologists, or men learned in natural history, who seem to have answered for it that mermaids sing sweetly. Ed. Why is the Fox called Dan Russel ? Aunt C. Russel, from his colour rousse ; Dan, like the Spanish Don, short for Dominus^ Lord. Grace. How droll to think of those old knights and people in armour caring for stories of cocks and hens. Alice. And it is exactly the same notion as in the old fable of the Fox and the Crow. Do let us have that next. Aunt. THE FOX AND THE CROW. The Fox and the Crow, In prose, I well know, Many good little girls can rehearse; Perhaps it will tell Pretty nearly as well If we try the same fable in verse. In a dairy a Crow, Having ventured to go Some food for her young ones to seek. Flew up in the trees With a fine piece of cheese, Which she joyfully held in her beak. 82 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. A Fox, who lived by, To the tree saw her fly, And to share in the prize made a vow; For, having just dined. He for cheese felt inclined. So he went and sat under the bough. She was cunning, he knew, But so was he too. And with flattery adopted his plan; For he knew if she 'd speak It must fall from her beak. So he, bowing politely, began — "Tis a very fine day" (Not a word did she say), "The wind, I believe, ma'am, is south; A fine harvest for peas" — He then looked at the cheese. But the Crow did not open her mouth. V Sly Reynard, not tired, Her plumage admired — "How charming I how brilliant its hue I The voice must be fine Of a bird so divine — Ah I let me just hear it, pray do ? Tfte Fox. 83 "Believe me, I long To hear a sweet song" — The silly crow foolishly tries. She scarce gave one squall, When the cheese she let fall, And the Fox ran away with the prize. Ann or Jane Taylor. Aunt C Dear old Original Poems ! My dopy came down from a former generation. They have come fresh and fresh to one set of children after another, now, for seventy years — for the first edition was published in 18 10. Before that, there was scarcely any poetry easy enough for children, except some of Cowper's pieces, and they were made to learn very beautiful passages which they could not under- stand Alice. We are very much obliged to whoever it was that wrote those charming old verses. Aunt C It was one of two sisters — Ann and Jane Taylor, who belonged to a large and happy family, the children of an engraver of prints, living at Ongar, in Essex. One of them, Ann, who lived to a great age, wrote her recollections, and a delightful picture she gives of the family habits. Some interesting book was 84 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. read aloud at meals, and then the daughters went to help their father at his work of line-engraving in a large airy room. They had time for their own pursuits too, and among them was this of writing verses for young people. Ann married a Mr. Gilbert, and spent the rest of her life at Nottingham, where she died at a great age in i860. Jane died in 1822. You must read about them some day in Mrs. Gilbert's Memoirs, or in The Family Pen, where their nephew tells the full history. Ed. There 's a better story still in my Greek history book. The fox did some good there. Aunt C. Ah ! the ballad of Aristomenes in Dr. Neale's Stories from Heat lien Mytliology. Pray let us hear it, Edmund. Ed. You must know that this fellow's people — the Messenians, weren't they ? — had been beaten by the Spartans in a great battle, and all the dead men, fifty of them, had been thrown into a pit, and he among them. However, he really was not hurt a bit, only stunned. The Fox. 85 ARISTOMENES AND THE FOX. A health to all good comrades, now listen while I sing A song of Aristomenes, Messene's hero king ; [distrest, How Sparta far and wide he vexed, and Sparta's sons Till mothers frightened with his name the infant at the breast To-day he was at Pylos — to Pylos went the foe, [low." And fast and furious came the scouts with " Phaerae is laid To Phaerae Lacedaemon's chiefs went hurrying as they might ; At Eira Aristomenes is resting from the fight. He marched to fair Amyclae, and took the silent town ; He marched to Stenyclarus, and won him great renown ; How vainly then Tyrtaeus sang, let that Boar's Pillar tell, When Lacedaemon's cowards fled, and all her bravest fell. Then out went Sparta's horse and foot, and out went Sparta's kings As craftily and cunningly as the wolf on the roebuck springs ; They turned Messene's flank by night, and at the break of day They forced her Aristomenes to halt and stand at bay. They have taken Aristomenes, their bravest bind him fast. And him and all his comrades into Ceadas they cast ; A dark and noisome pit was that, full fifty fathoms deep, And all were dashed to pieces save their chieftain from the steep. Three days, three nights, expecting death, Messene's hero lay. Till to the pit, the fourth grey mom, a fox hath found his way. ** Oh ho," quoth Aristomenes, as he turned his head about, " Where'er a fox can get him in, a man may get him out" Fast hath he seized him by the tail, and followed where he went, As through many a rocky cranny his winding course he brat The kings of Sparta thought him dead, until there came a scout — ''Aristomenes is leading Messene's thousands out I" Dr. Neale. L EVENING VL ONE-SIDEDNESS. Ed. (reads) The Elephant THE ELEPHANT, It was six men of Indostan, To learning much inclined, Who went to see the Elephant (Though all of them were blind). That each by observation Might satisfy his mind. The first approached the Elephant, And, happening to fall Against his broad and sturdy side. At once began to bawl — " Bless me I it seems the Elephant Is very like a wall !" i 88 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. The second^ feeling of the tusk, Cried, " Ho ! what have we here. So very round and smooth and sharp ? To me 'tis mighty clear This wonder of an Elephant Is very like a spear I" The third approached the animal. And, happening to take The squirming trunk within his hands. Then boldly up and spake — " I see," quoth he, " the Elephant Is very like a snake !" Tht fourth stretched out his eager hand, And felt about the knee ; " What most this wondering beast is like. Is mighty plain," quoth he — " 'Tis clear enough the Elephant Is very like a tree !" The^/A, who chanced to touch the car. Said, '* E*en the blindest man Can tell what this resembles most, Deny the fact who can — This marvel of an Elephant Is very like a fan I" ! One-sidedness. 89 The sixth no sooner had begun About the beast to grope, Than, seizing on the swinging tail That fell within his scope — " I see," cried he, " the Elephant Is very like a rope !" And so these men of Indostan Disputed loud and long, Each in his own opinion Exceeding stiff and strong ; Though each was partly in the right, And all were in the wrong I John Godfrey Saxe. Now I call that fun ! Alice. Where did you get it from ? Ed. Out of a book of extracts. The name to it is John Godfrey Saxe. Aunt C. I believe he was an American writer ; but I know no more about him than about Merrick, the author of a more old-fashioned fable, teaching the like lesson. THE CHAMELEON. Oflt has it been my lot to mark A proud, conceited, talking spark, Who begs you 'd pay a due submission, And acquiesce in his decision. i 90 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. Two travellers, of such a cast — As o'er Arabia's wilds they passed, And on their way, in friendly chat, Now talk*d of this, and then of that — Discoursed awhile, 'mongst other matter, Of the Chameleon's form and nature. "A stranger animal/' cries one, " Sure never lived beneath the sun I A lizard's body, lean and long, A fish's head, a serpent's tongue, Its tooth with triple claw disjoined ; And what a length of tail behind I How slow its pace I and then its hue — Who ever saw so fine a blue !" " Hold there !" the other quick replies, ** 'Tis green — I saw it with these eyes. As late with open mouth it lay. And warm'd it in the sunny ray ; Stretch'd at its ease, the beast I view'd, And saw it eat the air for food." ** I 've seen it, sir, as well as you, And must again affirm it blue ; At leisure I the beast survey'd, Extended in the cooling shade." " Tis green, 'tis green, sir, I assure ye." — " Green I" cries the other in a fury ; " Why, sir — d' ye think I *ve lost my eyes ? " " Twere no great loss," the friend replies ; One-sidedness. 9 1 " For, if they always serve you thus, You 11 find 'em but of little use !" So high at last the contest rose, From words they almost came to blows ; When luckily came by a third : To him the question they referred ; And beg^'d he 'd tell 'em if he knew Whether the thing was green or blue. " Sirs," cries the umpire, " cease your pother ; The creature *s neither one nor t' other. I caught the animal last night. And view'd it o'er by candle-light ; I marked it well — ^'twas black as jet — You stare — but, sirs, I 've got it yet, And can produce it" — " Pray, sir, do : I '11 lay my life the thing is blue." •* And I '11 be sworn, that when you 've seen The reptile, you '11 pronounce him green." " Well then, at once to end the doubt," Replies the man, " I '11 turn him out ; And when before your eyes I 've set him, If you don't find him black, 1 11 eat him." He said ; then full before their sight Produced the beast, and lo ! — 'twas white. Merrick. Ed. But do Chameleons turn blue, and green, and all manner of colours ? Aunt C In point of fact, I believe they only change 92 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. through different tints of olive, but the meaning is the same. Alice. That it is absurd to be positive ! Aunt C. Rather that there are many aspects to everything, and that our being quite right does not prove everybody else to be wrong. Alice. I see. We may only see a part, or else things may affect us quite differently from others. Ed. One man's meat is another's poison. Alice. Let Gracie say her fable from Old Friends in a New Dress^ Aunt. Its moral is much the same. THE OWL AND THE EAGLE. An Owl from out a hollow tree One afternoon was peeping ; It was about half after three, His usual time for sleeping. 'Twas summer, and the sun shone bright ; Says he, " I can't help thinking This is a most unpleasant sight, I can't look up for winking. "It spoils the beauty of the scene. It dazzles all about it, And certainly the world had been Much prettier without it. One-sidedness. 93 " No staring flowers would then be here, All gaudy and perfumy, But day would just like night appear Quite beautiful and gloomy." An Eagle cried, "You silly bird, By selfish folly blinded ! Was e'er such wretched nonsense heard^ O dull and narrow-minded ? *' The sun bids millions daily rise To pleasure, health, and duty ; While you have not the sense to prize Its value or its beauty. " If you, poor thoughtless thing ! again Should venture your opinion, And dare of blessings to complain In Nature's wide dominion, " Make not your dulness a pretence For wishing to destroy them, But seek for gratitude and sense, And power to enjoy them." Old Friends in a New Dress. Aunt C. Yes, the Owl has no notion of the ruin it would be to others if all the world accommodated itself to his tastes. Here is one of the famous fables by 94 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. John Gay — who was a wit in Queen Anne's time — showing in what a different point of view our per- formances may be taken. Southwark fair was, I should tell you, in the years shortly after 1 700, a great place for tumblers, jugglers, rope-dancers, and so on. THE TWO MONKEYa Two Monkeys went to Southwark fair, No critics had a sourer air ; They forced their way through draggled folks, Who gaped to catch Jack Pudding's jokes, Then took their tickets for the show. And got, by chance, the foremost row. To see their grave observing face Provoked a laugh around the place. " Brother," says Pug, and turned his head, " The rabble 's monstrously ill bred." Now through the booth loud hisses ran. Nor ended till the show began. The tumbler whirls the flip-flap round. With sommersets he shakes the ground ; The cord beneath the dancer springs, Alofl in air the vaulter swings. Distorted now, now prone depends, Now through his twisted arms ascends ; The crowd, in wonder and delight, With clapping hands, applaud the sight One-sidedness. 95 With smiles, quoth Pug, " If pranks like these The giant apes of reason please, How must tiiey wonder at our arts — They must adore us for our parts. High on the twig I Ve seen you cling. Play, twist, and turn in airy ring. How can those clumsy things, like me. Fly with a bound from tree to tree ? But yet by this applause we find These emulators of our kind Discern our worth, our parts regard, Who our mean mimicks thus reward." " Brother," his grinning mate replies, " In this I grant that man is wise : While good example they pursue, We must allow some praise is due ; But when they strain beyond their guide, I laugh to scorn the mimic pride ; For how fantastic is the sight To meet men always bolt upright. Because we sometimes walk on two, I hate the imitating crew 1 Gay. Alice. I see ; the Monkeys thought all the rope- dancing was a bad imitation of themselves. Ed. And that people carried it too far when they walked upright always, because Monkeys do so some- times. Well done, Monkeys ! 96 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. Aunt C. When we inquire too closely what is thought of us, we sometimes make the same kind of startling discovery. Alice. Please, Aunt Charlotte, let us have "The Little Fir-Tree," that you translated from the German, for I think that shows, not only how silly it is to wish for change, but also how one cannot think of all the inconveniences at once till we try. THE LITTLE FIR-TREE. Once on a time, in the depths of the wood, A Fir-tree, both young and pretty, stood. Now a Fir-tree has leaves long, sharp, and slender. While other trees' leaves are broad and tender ; And it put this little tree in a passion To find that its dress was not in the fashion. "Ah me !" it cried, "it is quite beyond bearing That when all my comrades fine foliage are wearing, Only needles and pins should ever be mine — No wonder that my very name should be Pine. Oh I would that a fairy would come in the night, And alter my leaves to gold, shining bright" In the morning, when woke the little tree, Magnificent were its leaves to see. " Hurrah I" it cried, "behold me — ^behold What tree in the wood can show leaves of gold ? One-sidedness. 9 7 King Oak himself for such glories may sigh." Alas ! late in the evening a pedlar came by ; He gathered each one of the leaves so rare, And the poor little tree found its branches quite bare. Its condition would make your very heart bleed ; "Alas!" it moaned, "this is cruel indeed. If such covetous pedlars this way will pass, I had rather my leaves were of glittering glass." When the little tree awoke in the morning, Leaves of crystal glass each bough were adorning. ** Hurrah !" cried the tree, " this is very good, I am finer than all the trees in the wood." But there came some rude and tempestuous weather, Which knocked all the boughs and branches together. Until all the brilliant foliage of glass Lay in shattered fragments upon the grass. " Ah !" it sighed, " I should have reflected a little That leaves of glass are apt to be brittle. On the morrow, I '11 only wish to be seen In the general fashion, with broad leaves of green." It fell asleep, feeling both sad and forlorn. But when it awoke on a sunshiny morn, It tossed its boughs in triumph aloft, Clad in handsome leaves, broad, smooth, and soft. But that evening a goat, in want of a supper, Brows'd off all the leaves both under and upper. " What matters it then," said the poor little fellow, " If the hue of my leaves be blue, scarlet, or yellow } 98 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. Leaves that will not come oft are all I require — My poor old green needles would be my desire." So the little tree fell asleep in sorrow, And sadly it awoke on the morrow ; It looked at itself in the sunbeams bright, And began to laugh with all its might ; And the trees around were laughing too, As the evergreen needles again they knew. So the little tree of its folly repented. Nor ever again was it discontented. From the German. Aunt C. Now we will finish the evening with a graver poem, from the Stiver Store, by Mr. Sabine Baring Gould, showing how — since, as Alice says, we cannot take all consequences into consideration — it is better to trust all things to God's own will and wisdom. THE OLIVE-TREE. Said an ancient hermit, bending Half in prayer upon his knee, "Oil I need for midnight watching, I desire an Olive-tree." Then he took a tender sapling, Planted it before his cave. Spread his trembling hands above it. As his benison he gave. One-sidedness. 99 But he thought^ the rain it needeth, That the root may drink and swell; "God, I pray Thee send Thy showers!" So a gentle shower fell. " Lord, I ask for beams of summer, Cherishing this little child!" Then the dripping clouds divided, And the sun looked down and smiled. "Send It frost to brace its tissues, O my God!" the hermit cried; Then the plant was bright and hoary. But at even-song it died. Went the hermit to a brother Sitting in his rocky cell; "Thou an Olive-tree possessest, How is this, my brother — tell? "I have planted one, and prayed, Now for sunshine, now for rain ; God hath granted each petition. Yet my Olive-tree hath slain!*' Said the other, "I entrusted To its God my little tree; He who made, knew what it needed Better than a man like me. loo Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. " Laid I on Him no condition, Fixed not ways and means; so I Wonder not my Olive thriveth. Whilst thy Olive-tree did die." S. Baring Gould. Alice. Here's another way of looking at the two sides. BLACK AND WHITK " A gloomy world," says Neighbour Black, " Where clouds of dreary dun, In masses rolled, the sky enfold, And blot the noonday sun." *' Aye, so it is," says Neighbour White ; " But haply you and I Might shed a ray to cheer the way — Come, Neighbour, let us try." " A vale of tears," says Neighbour Black, " A vale of weary breath, Of soul-wrung sighs and hopeless eyes, From birth to early death." " Aye, so it is," says Neighbour White ; " But haply you and I Just there and here might dry a tear — Come, Neighbour, let us try." One-sidedness. "A wilderness," says Neighbour Black, "A desert waste and wide, Where rank weeds choke, and ravens croak, And noisome reptiles hide." "Aye, so it is," says Neighbour White; " But haply you and I Might clear the ground our homes around — Come, Neighbour, let us try." Frxderick Lancbridgk. EVENING VII. KING ROBERT'S BOWL Aunt C. I think I heard Edmund crying out for something spirited, and I hope I shall satisfy him with the ballad I have here. KING ROBERT'S BOWL. There 's blude upon the banks of Urr, Its bonny banks sae g^een, An' mony a knight lies bleeding there, O* mettle true, I ween. An' twa, the fiercest o* them a', Twa noble knights an' gude, Fight han' to ban' wi' visors doun, And swords fu* red wi' blude. The swords they clash'd, and the fire it flash'd, An' the blude ran out between, King Robert's Bowl. 103 An' out has come Mark Sprott's gudewife To see what this may mean. She 's grasped the hair o' the English knight, And twisted her fingers roun', An' wi' ae lock o' that yellow hair She 's pu'd him to the groun'. '' Lie doun, lie doun, thou fause Southron, Where better men hae lain, And yield thee prisoner to this knight, Or He among the slain." The English to the Scottish knight Has owned him vanquished man, And they hae washed their bluidy han's In the stream that by them wan. An' side by side they've sat them doun In the house o' gude Mark Sprott ; There wadna twa dear brithers there Mair friendly been, I wot O then outspak the Scottish knight, " Twa days nae food I 've seen, Or the bravest knight in a* England Nae match for Bruce had been." O then outspak the English knight, " I did not think, I trow, With the leader of the Scottish men To answer blow for blow." I04 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. An' syne outspak Mark Sprott's gudewife, Wi* muckle scorn spak she, " Leader o' the Scottish men ! King is his degree. " An' while this roof is owre your head Ye, sir, shall hail him king, Or in your comely English face This scalding brose I '11 fling." Then smiling spake the gude De Bruce, •* *Twere pity great, I ween, To spoil a comely face wi' brose Wad feed a hungry king. " Then of thy stores draw forth, gude dame, For this g^de knight an' me. For baith o' this thy tempting fare Wad fain partakers be." Then answer made Mark Sprott's gudewife, " Brave king, that mayna be ; Shame fa' my hand 'gin it would feed Our mortal enemie. " Were I a man, hemp to his ban's, T brieve Castle for his hame, Cauld bread and water for his food, Should serve this knight o' fame." " Fair fa' thy true Scots heart, gude dame. Fair fa' thy loyaltie. King Robert's Bowl. 105 Now by my royal word, I swear, Rewarded thou shalt be. " This bonny holm fu' fertile is, Yon hill is fair and green, A goodly heritage 'twould make For kindly Scot, I ween. Of all round which thy feet can rin, While I thy brose do pree. Thou, by my kingly word, I vow Shalt be the fair ladie. " The bowl is deep, the brose is het, • As het as weel may be ; King's hunger 'gainst a woman's speed 1 Now kilt thy coats and flee !" O, she has kilted up her coats, An' bound her flying hair. An' sic a race as she maun rin, I trow ran woman ne'er. She stinted not for briar-bush. For stane, nor yet for thorn ; But aye she wan, and aye she ran, Wi' limbs and garments torn. An' first she saw a wily fox Was running roun' the hill, Wi' fatted goose frae her ain store — She liked the sight but ill. io6 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. " May huntsman find ye, wily beast, That comes at sic a time ; But better 'twere fat goose to want Than rood o' land to tyne." An' syne she saw a miller man, Slept on the Sheeling Hill, An* round him played the fiery flames On rafter, roof, and kiln. " Now soundly sleep, thou miller man. An' fire burn merrilie. For an' I stop to wake an* quench, Urr's dame I ne'er shall be." And when she gained the house again She gave but ae peep in. But that ae peep showed sight wad cheer The heart o' living thing. For side by side the twa knights sat. An' smiling merrilie, Wi' but ae spoon between them twa, They supped right heartilie. Four words she spak, she spak but four, " Fair play, my liege, fair play ;" Ere wi' ae bound, by bank and stream, Ance mair she was away. Then spak the Southron to the king, " I like thy fare not ill. King Robert's Bowl. 107 And for the dame that made the food, I like her better still. Were hearts like hers within the breasts Of half your Scottish men, We Southrons might from this fair land Turn bridles home again." An* aye the sturdy dame ran on, An' ere the brose was done, Fu' many a mile o' bonny land For heritage she won. An' thus she said, " O' a' this land I shall be called ladie. An' Sprott of Urr in time to come An honoured name shall be." An' by this deed it shall be held When passes Scottish king, The laird of Urr gude butter brose In lordly dish shall bring. The king has heard her musing speech, And ta'en her at her word ; That race has made her Urr's ladie. An' Mark its gallant lord. M. E. Neil. Ed. Oh, that is fun ! Alice. Is it a real old ballad. Aunt ? io8 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. Aunt C. No, it is by a young lady, still alive, who wrote it for the magazine of a little essay society. Alice. But of course it is a real tradition. Aunt C. Yes, like that of the Hay of Luncarty, who, with his two sons and their ploughshares, kept the pass against the English army, and were rewarded with as much land as a falcon could fly over. Grace. I don't know what brose means. Aunt C. Oatmeal with boiling water poured on it I suppose this was made rich with butter. It is not easy to say what can come after so capital a poem. Alice. I marked one in the Little Folks for January, 1879, page 20, which is full of loyalty, though of a different kind — loyalty to one's word. It is supposed to happen soon after one of the Jacobite risings, and is called HIDE AND SEEK IN A MANOR-HOUSE. It happened many a year ago, When the earth was waiting for the snow, That a joyous company looked out From a window wainscoted and low. " The garden Is dim and cold," they said, " And the yew-tree nods its aged head. As the snow-flake slowly strays about, King Robert's Bowl. 109 And the moonless sky looks stem and gray ; But our hearts are blithe, and a game we 11 play — Such a game as we never have played before — Through chamber and hall and corridor. Then off they ran in frolic and glee, In truth 'twas a dainty sight to see ; Four little maidens in high-heeled shoes, And ribbons and kerchiefs of many hues ; Three tall brothers, all bragging and bold, And gentle Sir Christopher seven years old. How they made the oaken floors to creak With the hurry and skurry of hide and seek ; How they shouted and bounded away Through gallery long and dusty room. Where rose leaves hid amongst the gloom, Where mice danced up to their tripping feet, And armour clashed at their passage fleet ; Rattle of dagger and coat of mail. Till the moon threw off her cloudy veil To watch them at their play. At flrst 'twas laughter and sport and fun, But fancies strange came one by one ; For thrice they thought, where the shadows spread. That they saw the form of a tiny head. And once where the moonlight broader shone, They caught the gleam of a face unknown. no Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. Said Lily to Roger (guests were they), " 'Tis an odd and wildering game we play, For eight were we, and now we are nine ;" Said he, *' 'Tis a trick of the white moonshine.*' Then Dorothy too her thoughts must say, But Launcelot laughed her fears away, And Geoffrey vowed that the sport and race Were wilder far for a phantom face. To Alice, who towered right over his head, " I too have seen," Sir Christopher said ; " Yes, though we were eight and now we are nine. Take courage and lay your hand in mine." Then Muriel spoke with a touch of scorn, " 'Tis here I have dwelt ever since I was born ; I know each cupboard and cranny and nook. And where to hide and where to look ; By moonlit wall or flickering hearth, No phantom-child may cross our path." Then some for frolic and some for fear. Till the moon was gone, sought far and near, Till they met once more in the ruddy shine Of the splintering fir and the fragrant pine ; And they heard from the wide banquet-hall Glad sound of voices rise and fall. For friends long parted there were found Who passed the toast and pledge around. And prayed for tumult and strife to cease, And cried, " Long live King George in peace I" King Robert's Bowl. lii At dark, on the morrow, in joyous train The playmates rushed through the house again ; They looked at the armour, they peered in each nook, And curtains of 'broidery rare they shook. Nor knew, so engrossing the quest had grown. That a stranger had followed alone, alone« Beside the bright hearth again they met Save Christopher only, who lingered yet, For far in the gloom did the maiden stand With the shining eyes and the wee white hand. Then a childish voice, in accents clear. Asked, "What do you do, little maiden, here ?" Her eyes replied that she might not tell. With a wave of her hand she said, " Farewell !" And away she ran through the wildering place, And he followed her steps ; 'twas a fairy race. For she taught him magic of tapestry. And steps in the deep of earth to see. At a low dark door she beckoned to him, And they entered a chamber cold and dim. A sorrowful man sat there asleep. And his wife beside him watch did keep, And she wrung her hands in wild despair, At sight of the boy so young and fair. " O child ! what have you done ?" she cried ; And the weeping maiden low replied, " Away from the gloom, while my father slept, Up winding stairs I groped and crept. 112 A tint Ctiarlottes Poetry Book. Till far in a gallery long I strayed, And watched how a troop of children played. In race so glad and free they came, I could not choose but follow the game ; One playmate lingered too behind, But I fear no ill from one so kind." In wonder stood Sir Christopher there. Till the lady pointed to the chair. And said, *' Yon hapless fugitive. By your grace alone may die or live, For a price is set upon his head, And our friends are all in prison or dead. And the prince, our king we deem by right. But three months since was saved by flight. The squire, God bless him evermore, To our urgent need hath opened his door, And granted us here to wait in dread While two long days and a night have sped. For we are sorrowing outcasts all, Who dare not walk where the sunbeams fall, Yet still this night we hoped to flee To a safer land beyond the sea." He knew that his father, brave in strife. For the Stewart prince had given his life ; But as he stood, no questioning Perplexed his mind of rightful king. The ready childish tears must rise As he looked at her with his loyal eyes. King Robert's Bowl. 113 And he only said, " This night I '11 pray That you may softly flee away ; And I will pray that the snow may fall And hide your parting steps from all." And then he bade them all good night. And groped his way in the warmth and light. In sleep his eyelids scarcely fell — He feared in his dreams the tale to tell ; But something said, when the night had past, Those sorrowful ones were safe at last, And full four hours o'er meadow and park The kind soft snow had lain in the dark. They talked in the manor-house many a year Of their moonlit sport and their foolish fear ; But the secret wrung from a game of play Sir Christopher kept to his dying day. H. P. EVENING VIII, THE FIRESIDE. Auni C Here is a coloured picture for to-night, and Gracie has her contribution ready, from an old friend, Cowper's translation from Vincent Bourne. THE CRICKET. Little inmate, full of mirth, . Chirping on my kitchen hearth, Wheresoe'er be thine abode, Always harbinger of good ; Pay me for thy snug retreat With a song more soft and sweet. In return thou shalt receive Such a strain as I can give. Thus thy praise shalt be exprest, Inoffensive, welcome guest 1 While the rat is on the scout. And the mouse with curious snout. The Fireside. 115 With what vermin else infest Every dish and spoil the best ; Frisking thus before the fire, Thou hast all thy heart's desire. Though in voice and shape they be Formed as if akin to thee, Thou surpassest, happier far, Happiest grasshoppers that are ; Theirs is but a summer's song, Thine endures the winter long. Unimpaired and shrill and clear, Melody throughout the year. COWPER. Aunt C. The poetical side of the Cricket, Mr. lowper. Ed. What do you think of his comrade } THE COCKROACH. A Cockroach crawled o'er a baker's shelf, Waving his horns and looking for pelf; The baker on his broad board below Was kneading and rolling about his dough. The board received such terrible thumps As the baker's rolling-pin struck the lumps ; The shelf was shaken, the Cockroach fell, And where, that baker he could not tell. ii6 Aunt Charlottes Poetry Book. Down in the oven, deep in the dough, Stern fate would have that Cockroach go ; Dead and buried, his fate unknown. Perished the Cockroach all alone. A napkin lay where a feast was spread. In its midst a bit of dainty bread ; A lovely lady with hands most fair, Unravelled the napkin lying there. Many a beggar might live on the steams That danced in the hall on the waxlight beams ; But he must have a most delicate smell Who by its strange odour that dish could telL A dreadful shriek rends the steam and air That clustered around that lady fair ; The guests all about the table rise, And look towards her with dread surprise. " Now sit, my good lords, I pray," quoth she, " And kindly I beg don't question me." And glad were they when the fright was o'er To turn to the sumptuous feast once more. In vain did the lady strive to eat Delicate morsels of richest meat ; A dreadful sight rends her constant view — She had bitten the hateful Cockroach through ! The Fireside. 117 Alice and Grace. Oh, you horrid boy ! Where did you get that ? Ed. I opened this old magazine — the Family Friend is its name — and I knew you would be delighted 1 Aunt C. You left out a great deal, for it goes on to preach vegetarianism — that is, eating no animal food. Alice. We have had plenty, I am sure. Grace. Aunt Charlotte, make haste and read us something nice instead. Aunt C. Here are Adelaide Proctor's Pictures in the Fire. She was a gentle, pensive lady, the daughter of a poet of some note in his day. She died when she had scarcely reached middle age, leaving behind her a number of thoughtful verses, most of which are too grave and sad for these evenings of ours, but I am glad to give you one specimen. PICTURES IN THE FIRK What is it you ask me, darling ? All my stories, child, you know ; I have no strange dreams to tell you. Pictures I have none to show. ii8 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. Tell you glorious scenes of travel ? Nay, my child, that cannot be ; I have seen no foreign country. Marvels none on land or sea. Yet strange sights, in truth, I witness, And I gaze until I tire ; Wondrous pictures, changing ever. As I look into the fire. There, last night, I saw a cavern. Black as pitch ; within it lay Coiled in many folds a dragon, Glaring as if turned to bay. And a knight in dismal armour, On a winged eagle came To do battle with this dragon. And his crest was all of flame. As I gazed, the dragon faded. And, instead, sat Pluto crowned. By a lake of burning fire Spirits dark were crouching round. That was gone, and lo I before me A cathedral vast and grim ; I could almost hear the organ Peal along the arches dim. The Fireside. 119 As I watched the wreathed pillars. Groves of stately palms arose. And a group of swarthy Indians Stealing on some sleeping foes. Stay, a cataract, glancing brightly, Dashed and sparkled ; and beside, Lay a broken marble monster. Mouth and eyes were staring wide. Then I saw a maiden wreathing Starry flowers in garlands sweet ; Did she see the fiery serpent That was wrapped about her feet ? That fell crashing all and vanished. And I saw two armies close — I could almost hear the clarions, And the shouting of the foes. They were gone ; and lo I bright angels. On a barren mountain wild. Raised appealing arms to Heaven, Bearing up a little child. And I gazed and gazed, and slowly Gathered in my eyes sad tears, And the fiery pictures bore me Back through distant dreams of years. i I20 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. Once again I tasted sorrow. With past joy was once more gay, Till the shade had gathered round me. And the fire had died away. A. A. Proctor. Alice. Yes, I like that very much. One may see all those things, if one looks with the kind of eyes that see. Ed. What special eyes are those, pray ? Aunt C. The eyes of fancy, critical sir, which we put on every evening over our poems. Alice. Oh ! I see you have Longfellow's dear '* Children's Hour *' for us, Aunt I am so glad. THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. Between the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupation That is known as the children's hour. I hear, in the chamber above me, The patter of little feet. The sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet The Fireside. 121 From my study I see in the lamplight, Descending the broad hall-stair, Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair. A whisper and then a silence, Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together To take me by surprise, A sudden rush from the stair-way, A sudden raid from the hall, By those doors left unguarded They enter my castle wall. They climb up into my turret On the arms and back of my chair ; If I try to escape, they surround me. They seem to be everywhere. They almost devour me with kisses, Their arms about me entwine ; And I think of the Bishop of Bingen In his mouse-tower on the Rhine. Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti. Because you have scaled the wall. Such an old moustache as I am Is not a match for you all ? 122 Aunt Charlottes Poetry Book. I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart. But put you down in the dungeons In the round tower of my heart. And there will I keep you for ever — Yes, for ever and a day — Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away. Longfellow. Grace. Who was the Bishop of Bingen ? Ed. Bishop Hatto. Aunt Charlotte, let us have his ballad. Aunt C. No, no; it is much too horrid and fright- ful for small ears. Ed. He kept up all the corn, and would let no one have it Alice. Hush! Edmund Ed. And so the rats and mice Alice. Now, Edmund I Ed. Swam across the Rhine to his castle on an island, and Grace. Oh, what Ed. (in spite of hushes) Gobbled him up, body and bones and all. The Fireside. 123 Grace. But is it true ? Do rats and mice ever eat people ? Aunt C. Never fear, Gracie ; the wise say the whole story rose out of the name of Mouse Tower, a term by which the old castles of robber-nobles in Germany used to be called. EcL Aunt Charlotte, you talk of the eyes of fancy, and then spoil the story. Alice. The question is, whether it be a pretty fancy, which it is well to keep. Aunt C. We will end the evening with a gentle little sad poem of William Blake, the engraver, of whom I will tell you more by-and-by. It is supposed to be a conversation between a boy and his father. THE LAND OF DREAMS. " Awake, awake, my little boy. Thou wast thy mother's only joy ; Why dost thbu weep in thy gentle sleep ? — Awake, thy Father does thee keep.*' " Oh, what land is the Land of Dreams, What are its mountains and what its streams ? O father I I saw my mother there. Among the lilies by waters fair. 124 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. " Among the Iambs cIothM in white, She walked with her Thomas in sweet delight ; I wept for joy, like a dove I mourn — Oh, when shall I again return ?" ** Dear child, I also by pleasant streams Have wandered all night in the Land of Dreams ; But though calm and warm the waters wide, I could not get to the other side." " Father I O father 1 what do we here In this land of unbelief and fear ? The Land of Dreams is better far Above the light of the morning star. t> Blake. EVENING IX. STEAM. Alice. Aunt Charlotte has given us Steam for this evening's subject I cannot fancy anything more hopeless. Ed. It's the most sensible thing we have had yet Alice. Then you are bound to find something about it Ed. I ! Oh, I don't deal in your verses and trash. Aunt C. I am bold enough to hope to satisfy both of you formidable people — to find something that Edmund will not call trash, and convince Alice that poetry consists in the way you look at a thing. AHce. Vapours on mountain-tops may be poetical, but hardly a steam-engine. Aunt C. Let us ask our old friend, Ann Taylor. 126 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. After she became Mrs. Gilbert, and lived at Notting- ham in the midst of manufactures, she wrote THE SONG OF THE TEA-KETTLK Since first began my ominous song, Slowly have moved the ages along ; There I hung or there I stood, Giving what sign my nature could. Content, till man the hint should catch To purr to the lift of the cottage latch. Fraught with the weal of kingdoms vast, I sighed as the simpleton man went past ; Vainly I gave significant proof By thrusting high my prisoning roof; My lips uncouth their witness bore. But, inarticulate, could no more. At length the day in its glory rose, And off in its speed the engine goes ; Ponderous and blind, of rudest force, A pin and a whisper guide its course ; Around its sinews of iron play The viewless hands of a mental sway ; And triumphs the soul in its mighty dower To Knowledge^ the plighted boon to Power. Hark I to the din of a thousand wheels At play with the fleeces of England's fields ; From its bed upraised, 'tis the flood that roars To fill little cisterns at cottage doors ; 'Tis the many-fingered, intricate, bright machine, With its floweiy film of lace, I ween. And see how it rushes with silvery wrath The span of yon archM cave beneath ; Stupendous, vital, fiery, bright, Trailing its length in a country's sight ; Riven are the rocks, the hills give way. The dim valley rises to unfelt day. In queenly pomp on the surf it treads. Scarce waking the sea-things from their beds ; A few bright suns, and at rest it lies, Glittering to transatlantic skies. Simpleton man, why, who would have thought To this the Song of a Tea-kettle brought Mrs. Gilbert. Grace. Does the Tea-kettle say all that ? Aunt C And much more, but I left out the more difficult part Ed. I see. The steam tried to show its powers by lifting up the lid of the Tea-kettle, and pouring out of the lips of the spout. Then comes the great engine, managed by a pin and a whisper ! Oh yes Alice. Yes, knowledge is power there. 128 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. Ed. Then the spinning and weaving, the bringing water, the locomotives and steamers ! It is capital, Aunt The Tea-kettle's song may well rejoice and glorify itself. Aunt C. Here is another poem on the powers of steam, but it is not so good as the Tea-kettle, for it does not keep so exactly to fact, though you see it makes Steam into A MODERN GIANT. 'Twas long ago, in the good old days — In the good old days of yore, When man untamed would roam the earth As his sires had done before ; When everyone with his own strong arm Performed his needful toil, And each with his own rude implements Turned up the loamy soil ; When the sciences were all yet to come, And no art but war was known ; When the powerful man trod down the loam. And night ruled the world alone. A giant lived in those good old days, A giant of power untold — So strong that he could have mov'd the world If he only got right hold. steam. 129 And far he lived from the haunts of men, On the lonely mountain heights, And little reck'd he of mortal man, Of his struggles, and wars, and fights. Long had he lived on those mountains lone, All hidden from mortal ken, And long he knew he should still remain. Should they rest as he saw them then. But years rolled on, and men wiser grew, And they learned the arts of peace. And knowledge, when once 'tis roused in the heart, Must the thirst for knowledge increase. They plied the earth for its mines of wealth, For its veins of glittering ore ; They explored the fathomless depths of the sea In quest of the pearly store ; They searched all the spots of their island home. The mountains, the woods, and glens ; They hunted the fierce wild beasts of the wood E'en into their very dens. A man one day in his wanderings came To the mountain bleak and bare. And he climbed to the giant's lone abode, And he reached it and entered there ; And he saw his huge form stretched out in sleep On the floor of his rocky cave. And he marked his heaving breast, and heard The thunder his snoring gave ; z 130 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. And he marked with wondering eyes his strange And his strong and sinewy frame, Then he turned and descended the mountain side, And returned from whence he came. And mighty thoughts in his brain revolved, And mighty schemes he plann'd, And he told them all to his fellow-men. And he told them to all the land. They forged them bands of iron and brass, And fetters to chain his might, And they took their way to the giant's home On the lonely mountain height. And they saw his huge form stretched out in sleep On the floor of his lofty cave, And marked his mighty breast how it heaved, And the thunder his snoring gave. And they bound him fast with chains of brass As oppressed with sleep he lay. And they cared not a whit for his mighty strength, But made him their will obey. And they bound him down with iron bands, Like a slave they bound him down. And forced him to work for them night and day, And to win for them renown. He worked in their mines deep under the earth, Far hid from the light of day ; And he rowed their ships o'er the ocean wide As they dashed through the foamy spray. steam. 1 3 1 He worked their mills, and their weavers' looms, And their manufactures all ; And before the power of his wondrous might The fiercest strength must fall. He carried them over sea and land With the speed of the wintry wind. And even the swiftest of Nature's speed, He left it far behind. Now all the world knows well the sound Of the engine's snort and scream ; And man, puny man, where wouldst thou have been Without the aid of Steam ? A. J. W. Ed. But they had him on their own hearths long before they put him in bonds. Aunt C. True ; that is the weak point of the verses, which I found in the Magazine for the Young. Here is another — " The Song of the Engine-drivers." THE SONG OF THE ENGINE-DRIVERS. Water and flame to agreement came. And a solemn league they swore, To work such speed and to do such deed As never was done before ; To be friends to Time, to be foes to space, To mingle their rival powers. And at giants' pace, in a giant's race. To be slaves to us and ours. 132 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. The sign is made, the word is said, And the boiler coughs and hoots, And, taught to go at the first right slow» The long line onward shoots. Till with valves that rattle quick, And with steam that volumes thick, And with buffers each from other far apart, While the sleepers quake below. And the wheels like lightning go, Through the tunnel and the bridge we dart Through the chalk-built hill, by the busy mill, By the stream where the waters splash, Through the Kentish hops, through the Sussex copse, O'er the breezy heath we dash ; Where the small birds sing, where the sweet bells ring, Where the earliest flowers are plucked, We thunder away the live-long day O'er embankment and viaduct. There 's a hill before, yet we give not o'er, But with double speed we fly. And we make no pause at the tunnel's jaws, Though we enter with doleful cry ; Both the darkness and rocks our engine mocks. And mountains are tamed by skill ; Though they fought right hard for their own at Box, And harder at Clayton Hill. The hour will be past if we pause at last, So faster, if faster may be ; The clouds that fly through the summer sky Are not so swift as we ; There 's a whirr in the trees when we pass like the breeze, As if all we had done were too slow ; And for breath we must gasp as the tender rails we clasp, As a mile in a minute we go. We may hear the bell of our coming tell A long, long league away ; And the pleasant field to the town must yield Ere we end our toil to-day ; For life and for limb one thought to Him Of thankfulness we give. Who guides us aright in our whirlwind flight, When we could not go wrong and live ! J. M. Neale. Ed, Oh, famous! It is like riding on an engine. Did an engineer write it ? Aunt C. By no means. It was written by Dr. John Mason Neale, a clergyman, who died abouc ten years ago. He was warden of Sack villa College, a little almshouse, and spent most of his time in study and good works, and writing and translating many 134 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book, beautiful hymns, and also many stories for children. Perhaps you have read some in his Triumphs of the Cross, and you have most likely sung his hymns — " The Strain Upraise," for instance, with many more. He wrote many songs of the trades, and here we have the Engineer's. EVENING X. ROBIN REDBREAST. Grace. Aunt Charlotte said I might choose what our verses should be about to-night, so I have chosen a Robin, because I found some such pretty verses. ROBIN REDBREAST. Good-bye, good-bye to summer, For summer 's nearly done, The garden smiling faintly. Cool breezes in the sun ; Our thrushes now are silent. Our swallows flown away. But Robin 's here in coat of brown And scarlet breastknot gay. Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear, Robin sings so sweetly In the falling of the year. 136 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. Bright yellow, red, and orange. The leaves come down in hosts, The trees are Indian princes. But soon they turn to ghosts. The leathery pears and apples Hang russet on the bough. It *s autumn, autumn, autumn late, Twill soon be winter now. Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear. And what will this poor Robin do, For pinching days are near. The fireside for the cricket. The wheatstack for the mouse. When trembling night-winds whistle And moan around the house. The frosty way 's like iron. The branches plumed with snow ; Alas I in winter dead and dark Where can poor Robin go ? Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear, And a crumb of bread for Robin, His little heart to cheer. W. Allingham. Aunt C. Thank you, my dear, for Mr. Allingham's very pretty song. Robin Redbreast. 137 Alice. And Robin, with his winter song and cheery ways, has done much to cheer other people. Here are some verses of Miss M. E. Shipley's that you will like. A poor woman is supposed to tell the story. ROBIN'S CRUMBS. One dark winter morning I sat and sighed alone In my little chamber, My faith as cold as stone ; On my table near me Scanty food was spread. And I questioned sadly For to-morrow's bread. On the garden pathway Snow lay thick and white. For a heavy mantle Had fallen in the night In my aching bosom Deeper chill was there, For my trust in Heaven Was shrouded in despair. No kind friend was near me, None to help me on, And I knew my money, Yes, the last was gone ; z 138 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. Not a coin was left me In my empty purse. No one would employ me. Things could not be worse. And I nursed my sorrow. Thanklessly and drear. Not a thought of comfort Came my soul to cheer ; Till I rose up startled From a dream of ill. As a soft low cadence Broke the silence still. For a little Robin, On the garden-wall, Sang his Master's praises, Thanking God for all. Yet the gentle songster Had no home nor bed, And the flowers he k)v^d, Like my own, were dead. Robin had not tasted Any morning meal, All the chilly weather He, as I, could feel. Robin Redbreast. 139 Yet the trembling feathers Of his russet coat Hindered not the music Springing from his throat. Oh ! it was so joyous ! Not a thought of fear Seemed to mar the gladness Of his chorale clear ; And the brilliant glances Of his bright dark eyes Seemed to mock the dimness Of the winter skies. All around he cast them, On the ground beneath. On the roof above him, With its snowy wreath. Then to my own casement, Where I took my stand. With a breakfast for him Held within my hand. Then I oped the window. And away he flew, While upon the pathway All the crumbs I threw. I40 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. Timid little fellow ! Would he spurn the good Thus in kindness sent him, Plenteousness of food ? Back again he fluttered, Hopped, and peeped around, Then he grew emboldened, Flew upon the ground ; Ate his breakfast gladly, Sang his thanks once more, Perched upon the trellis Of my cottage door. Trustful little Robin, My cold heart grew warm. For I knew our Father, Who had sent the storm. Sent too what was needed For the life He made, And before my window On my knees I prayed — Prayed for strength and patience, Hope and faith sublime — Prayed that Robin's thankfulness In spirit might be mine; L Robin Redbreast. 141 Prayed I might no longer Doubt His watchful love Who His meanest creatures Watcheth from above. Then I rose refresh^ ; Gently at the door Footsteps were approaching, And I crossed the floor. Standing at the threshold Was a stranger form, And kind, loving accents Gave me greeting warm. Never had I seen her That dark day before, Angel's more than woman's Was the smile she wore ; Oh, the light it kindled In my darkened breast ! All at once my longings Were with plenty blest Work and help and comfort. Those she gave to me. With dear words of blessing Bade my sorrow flee ; When at length she leit me, Swift my needle flew, No more sad and dreary, I had work to do. And outside the window Robin's blithesome voice Bade me in God's mercy Evermore rejoice. He had found his breakfast, I my needs supplied, Both by us unlooked for In this winter-tide. Christian, then right gladly Loud thanksgiving raise, Dreading not to-morrow's wants, Contented with to-day's ; For most unexpected Help in trouble comes From our Father's window. Like poor Robin's crumbs. M. £. Shiplkv. Auni C. The lesson of the birds that grieve not about the morrow is very prettily and simply told. And here I have another legend from the Silver Store^ with the bird in a fresh light. L . Robin Redbreast. 143 ROBIN REDBREASTS CORN. In a quiet sheltered valley, Underneath a furzy hill, Where their light from rocky ledges Silver threads of water spill. Patient Benedictine brothers Thatch their cot with russet fern, Singing Ave Maris Stella To the flowing of the bum. They have come from southern regions To the wastes of Finisterre, Without scrip, or purse, or weapon. Trusting in the might of prayer. In a pleasant sunward hollow Of the barren purple fell, They have built a rustic chapel, Hung a little tinkling bell. There, alone in Christ believing. Wait the brothers God's own time When shall spread the Gospel tidings, Like a flood, from clime to clime. Yonder is a Druid circle. Where priests dance upon the dew. Singing of Ceridwen's kettle. And the ploughing of old Hu. 144 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. Now the brothers cut the heather, Stack the turf for winter fire, Wall about with lichened moorstones The enclosure of their byre. Then next they drain a weedy marsh, Praying in the midst of toil, And with plough of rude construction Draw light furrows through the soil. They seek wheat. It was forgotten, All their labour seems in vain, The barbarian Kelts about them Little know of golden grain. Said the Prior, " God will help us In the hour of bitter loss ;" Then one spied a Robin Redbreast Sitting on a wayside cross. Doubtless came the bird in answer To the words the Prior did speak, For a heavy wheatear dangled From the Robin's polished beak. Then the brothers, as he dropped it. Picked it up and careful sowed. And abundantly, in autumn, Reaped the harvest where they strowed. Robin Redbreast. 145 Do you mark the waving glory On the Breton hill-slopes flung ? All that wealth from Robin Redbreast's Little ear of wheat has sprung. Do you mark the many churches Scattered o'er that pleasant land ? All results are of the preaching Of that Benedictine band. Therefore, Christian, small beginnings Pass not by with lip of scorn ; God may prosper them as prospered Robin Redbreast's ear of com. Sabine Baring Gould. Grace. Oh, good little Robin ! But who was it, and when was it, and where was it, Aunt Charlotte ? Aunt C. Who, when, and where ? Well, to begin with who. They were monks, in early times, who came to settle in the wild, empty places, and teach the natives to believe, work, and pray. The when was somewhere about the seventh century. The witere was Finisterre, the Land's End of Brittany, a wild, rugged spot, where the inhabitants had remained heathen much later than in other parts of Gaul. 146 .'liDit Charlotte s Poetry Book. Grace. What were they singing ? Aunt C. Ave Maris Stella — Hail Mary, Star of the Sea — though in point of fact I believe that was not sung in France till much later. Ed. But there was a Druid circle. I thought Druids were British. Aunt C. The so-called Druids belonged quite as much to Northern Gaul as to Britain, Edmund. Brittany is full of wonderful stones said to be connected with the Druids' worship. Alice. And who were Ceridwen and Hu ? Aunt C. According to those who have tried to make out from old Welsh and Breton poems what the ancient Britons believed, Hu Gadarn was the father of the Druids. The Britons had a tradition of the flood, but they said it was caused by a great beaver, who let the water in on the earth, and then kept it submerged, till Hu harnessed two gigantic oxen to the earth and drew it out. Ceridwen was his wife, and the kettle, or cauldron, contained a wonderful mixture of herbs, which were to be boiled for a year, and would then give all wisdom to whosoever touched the decoction. Robin Redbreast. 147 Three drops flew out on the finger of a dwarf, and when he rubbed his eye with it, he saw the whole future before him 1 Have you any more notes to ask for, ladies and gentlemen ? Alice. The rest is all plain enough, and certainly, if Robin really did so much for Brittany, he has every right to crumbs. Ed. After all, the Robin that people make all these fine verses about is not a bit like the bold, spiteful, saucy, fighting bird the true Cock Robin is. Aunt C. No more than he is Jenny Wren's mate, as more people believe than you would suppose. Alice. They don't think he is really, Aunt Aunt C. Yes, they do. I have found many people who absolutely thought that Robin and Wren were a pair. In point of fact, the nursery rhyme about Cock Robin's funeral is said to have been begun as a kind of rhyming parable of the murder of Lord Darnley. Alice. How curious ! Aunt C. It is not the only one which is the remnant of some such song. But we will keep to our Red- breast, and, to satisfy Edmund, end with a poem of Wordsworth's, which does not present him in the amiable light, but pleads with him for killing a butter- fly. You see he goes through all the pet names diat the Robin is called by in other countries. THE REDBREAST AND THE BUTTERFLY. Art thou the bird whom man loves best. The pious bird with the scarlet breast. Our little English Robin ; The bird that comes about our doors When autumn winds are sobbing ? Art thou the Peter of Norway boors. Their Thomas in Finland, And Russia far inland ? The bird whom, by some name or other. All men who know thee call their brother. The darling of child and men ? Could father Adam open his eyes. And see this sight beneath the skies. He 'd wish to close them again. If the Butterfly knew but his friend. Hither his flight he would bend ; And find his way to me. Under the branches of the tree. Robin Redbreast. 149 In and out he darts about ; Can this be the bird, to man so good, That, after their bewildering, Did cover with leaves the little children So painfully in the wood ? What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could'st pursue A beautiful creature That is gentle by nature ? Beneath the summer sky From flower to flower let him fly ; 'Tis all that he wishes to do. The cheerer thou of our in-door sadness. He is the friend of our summer gladness : What hinders, then, that ye should be Playmates in the summer weather. And fly about in the air together ? His beautiful wings in crimson are dress'd, A crimson as bright as thine own 1 If thou wouldst be happy in thy nest, O pious bird, whom man loves best. Love him, or leave him alone ! Wordsworth. Ed. Catch the Robin loving the Butterfly for any- thing but to eat ! What has Adam to do with it 1 Grace. O Edmund, don't you see the creatures were at peace with one another, and did not hunt each other I50 ^unt Charlotte's Poetry Book. in the garden of Eden, and Adam would grieve to see the Bird killing the Butterfly. Aunt C. Right, Gracie. The passage to which Wordsworth refers is in Paradise Lost, where, the morning after the Fall, Eve is saddened by seeing how the Eagle Stooped from his aery tour, Two birds of gayest plume before him drove. EVENING XL BELLS. Ed. I declare Alice has got a paper. Have you been writing verses, Ally ? Alice. Not writing, only translating. There is a funny little poem in my German extract book, that I thought I might try to put into English, though I know I have not done it well Aunt C. Goethe ! You have flown high, Alice, Alice. Who was he, Aunt Charlotte ? I have heard his name many times, but I do not know anything about him. Was he not a great poet ? Aunt C. He was the greatest and most original poet Germany has ever had ; but I do not think he was either a great or a good man. He was bom in 152 ^unt Charlotte s Poetry Book. 1 749, at Weimar^ and spent all his life there in writing, thinking, and talking; but all through the terrible oppression of Germany, and all her brave struggle against it, he never seemed to care for more than going on with his own pursuits undisturbed. But his great powers, and the beautiful poems and plays that he wrote, caused him to be much sought after and admired, and he was a sort of prince of German literature for many years. He lived to a great age, and did not die till 1832. These verses of his must have been written in some playful mood, to amuse a child, or to versify an old nursery threat Alice. I have seen a print of the boy running away, and the great bell hopping after him, which made me wish to translate these verses, but I could not be quite literal without spoiling the English verse. Aunt C I see, my dear; but such translations are good practice, and you have rendered this very nicely. THE WALKING BELL. There was a child who never would In church be grave and steady ; Each Sunday morn, a reason good To seek the field was ready. His mother said, " Hark I there 's the bell Into the church to ring thee, And if thou dost not mind it well, It will come out and bring thee." Then thought the child, " The bell hangs there, In its frame fastened tightly ;" The pathway to the fields is fair, From school he runs off lightly. " The bell, the bell no more I hear. Mother spoke but in laughter ;" But lo ! behold, for in the rear The bell comes swinging after. Swing, swang it comes ; oh, what a sight ! So quickly doth it follow ; He runs lest he be covered quite, Extinguished in the hollow. At last he turns with wiser heed. Through meadows, fields, and bushes ; Scampering along with nimble speed. Into the church he rushes. • And every Sun- and holi-day, That day's disaster heeding, The first stroke finds him on his way, No call in person needing. From Goethe, 154 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. Grace. Please let us have "The German Watch- man's Song" next Alice once read it to me, and I liked it very much. THE GERMAN WATCHMAN'S SONG. Hark, ye neighbours, and hear me tell, Eight now sounds on the belfry bell ; Eight souls alone from death were kept When God the earth with the deluge swept Human watch from harm can't ward us ; God will watch and God will guard us ; He through His Eternal might Grant us all a happy night Hark, ye neighbours, and hear me tell. Nine now sounds on the belfry bell ; Nine lepers cleansed returned not — Be not Thy blessings, O God, forgot Human watch, &c. Hark, ye neighbours, and hear me tell. Ten now sounds on the belfry bell ; Ten are the holy Commandments given To man on earth by God in Heaven. Human watch, &c. Bells. 155 Hark, ye neighbours, and hear me tell, Eleven now sounds on the belfry bell ; Eleven Apostles of holy mind Proclaimed the Gospel to mankind. Human watch, &c. Hark, ye neighbours, and hear me tell, Twelve now sounds on the belfry bell ; Twelve disciples to jESUS came, Who suffered reproach for the Saviour's name. Human watch, &c. Hark, ye neighbours, and hear me tell. One now sounds on the belfry bell ; One God above, one Lord indeed, Who ever protects in the hour of need. Human watch, &c. Hark, ye neighbours, and hear me tell, Two now sounds on the belfry bell ; Two paths before mankind are free — Be sure and choose the best for thee. Human watch, &c. Hark, ye neighbours, and hear me tell, Three now sounds on the belfry bell ; Threefold praise from the Heavenly host To Father, Son, and Holy Ghost Human watch, &c. 156 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. Hark, ye neighbours, and hear me tell, Four now sounds from the belfry bell ; Four seasons crown the farmer's care, Thy heart with equal zeal prepare. Up now, awake, nor slumber on. The morn approaches, night is gone ; Thank God, who, by His love and might, Has watched us faithfully all night ; Rise to the duties of the day, And serve Him faithfully alway. From ihi German. Aunt C. Now we will come back to some English bells. This ballad is by Robert Southey. Alice. One of the Lake poets. Aunt C. Yes ; Coleridge's brother-in-law. He was not so original a poet, but he was most industrious as a scholar and writer, toiling for hours every day to maintain his family by his writings — histories, reviews, and poems — all full of curious research, and of fine, high-minded religious thought, though sometimes rather tedious. He died as recently as 1843, after an old age of weakened faculties, tenderly watched over by his second wife. The ballad I am going to read you is the real history of how John Brunskill gave the Bells. 157 — ■ ■ — ■ ■ ■ I ■ ■ peal of four bells to the fine old Westmoreland church of Brough, about the year 1500 or 1506. I should tell you that the word crune^ here used, is the north- country word for the bellowing of cattle. BROUGH BELLS. One day in Helbeck I had strolled Among the Crossfell hills, And, resting in its rocky grove, Sat listening to the rills ; The while in their sweet undersong. The birds sang blithe around, And the soft west wind awoke the wood To an intermitting sound. Louder or fainter, as it rose Or died away, was borne The harmony of merry bells From Brough, that merry morn. " Why are the merry bells of Brough, My friend, so few ?" said I ; *' They disappoint the expectant ear Which they should gratify. " One, two, three, four ; one, two, three, four ; Tis still one, two, three, four. Mellow and silvery are the tones. But I wish the bells were more !" 158 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. " What I art thou critical ?" quoth he ; " Eschew that heart's disease That seeketh for displeasure where The intent hath been to please. ** By these four bells there hangs a tale. Which, being told, I guess Will make thee hear their scanty peal With proper thankfulness. ** Not by the Cliffords were they given, Nor by the Tuftons' line ; Thou hearest in that peal the crune Of old John Brunskiirs kine. " On Stanemore's side one summer eve, John Brunskill sate to see His herds in yonder Borrowdale Come winding up the lea. ** Behind them, on the lowland's verge, In the evening light serene, Brough's silent tower, then newly built By Blenkinsop, was seen. " Slowly they came in long array. With loitering pace at will ; At times a low from them was heard Far off", for all was still. " The hills returned that lonely sound Upon the tranquil air ; The only sound it was, which then Awoke the echoes there. *• * Thou hear'st that lordly bull of mine^ Neighbour/ quoth Brunskill then ; ' How loudly to the hills he crunes, They crune to him again. •* 'Thinkest thou if yon whole herd at once Their voices should combine, Were they at Brough, that we might not Hear plainly from this upland spot That cruning of the kine ?* ** * That were a crune, indeed,' replied His comrade, 'which I ween Might at the Spital well be heard, And in all dales between. " * Up Mallerstang to Eden's springs, The eastern wind upon its wings The mighty voice would bear ; And Appleby would hear the sound Methinks, when skies are fair.' " * Then shall the herd,' John Brunskill cried, * From yon dumb steeple crune, And thou and I, on this hill-side. Will listen to their tune. i6o Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. " * So while the merry bells of Brough For many a year ring on, John Brunskill will remembered be, When he is dead and gone ; " * As one who, in his latter years. Contented with enough. Gave freely what he well could spare To buy the bells of Brough/ " Thus hath it proved : three hundred years Since then have past away, And BrunskilFs is a living name Among us to this day." " More pleasure," I replied, •* shall I From this time forth partake. When I remember Helbeck woods, For old John Brunskill's sake. " He knew how wholesome it would be. Among these wild wide fells. And upland vales, to catch, at times. The sound of Christian bells. "What feelings and what impulses Their cadence might convey To herdsman or to shepherd boy Whiling in indolent employ The solitary day ; " That when his brethren were convened To meet for social prayer, He too, admonished by the call, In spirit might be there. • '' Or when a glad thanksgiving sound Upon the winds of Heaven, Was sent to speak a Nation's joy For some great blessing given — " For victory by sea or land, And happy peace at length ; Peace by his country's valour won, And 'stablished by her strength ; " When such exultant peals were borne Upon the mountain air. The sound should stir his blood, and give An English impulse there." Such thoughts were in the old man's mind, When he that eve looked down From Stanemore's side on Borrowdale, And on the distant town. And had I store of wealth, methinks, Another herd of kine, John Brunskill, I would freely give, That they might crune with thine. SOUTHEY. 1 62 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. Alice. Begging Mr. Sou they 's pardon, I should be sorry to disturb the one, two, three, four that have gone on so long. Ed. Isn't there a story of some bells at the bottom of the sea ? Aunt C. There are many stories of cities swallowed up, with their church bells supposed to ring under the water; but perhaps you are thinking of the bells of Bottreau, in Cornwall, and I have their story in verse. It is told by the Rev. Robert Stephen Hawker, an old Cornish clergyman, who lived at Morwenstow, and delighted in collecting all old Cornish traditions and curious stories, and this one is just as the people have always told the story. THE SILENT TOWER OF BOTTREAU. Tintadgel* bells ring o'er the tide, The boy leans on his vessel side ; He hears that sound, and dreams of home, Soothe the wild orphan of the foam. * The rugged heights that line the sea-shore in the neighbourhood of Tintadgel Castle and Church are crested with towers. Among these, that of Bottreau, or, as it is now written, Boscastle, is without bells. The silence of this wild and lonely churchyard on festive or solemn occasions is not a little striking. On inquiry, I was told that the bells were once shipped for this church, but that when the vessel was within sight of the tower, the blasphemy of her captain was punished in the manner related in the poem. The bells, they told me, still lie in the bay, and announce by strange sounds the approach of a storm. — Note in tJu published edition of Hawker s Poetical IVorks, L " Come to thy God in time!" Thus saith their pealing chime : Youth, manhood, old age past, " Come to thy God at last." But why are Bottreau's echoes still ? Her tower stands proudly on the hill ; Yet the strange chough* that home hath found, The lamb lies sleeping on the ground. " Come to thy God in time ! " Should be her answering chime : " Come to thy God at last !" Should echo on the blast. The ship rode down with courses free, The daughter of a distant sea ; Her sheet was loose, her anchor stored, The merry Bottreau bells f on board. " Come to thy God in time !" Rung out Tintadgel's chime : Youth, manhood, old age past, " Come to thy God at last I " * This wild bird chiefly haunts the coasts of Devon and Cornwall The common people believe that the soul of King Arthur inhabits one of these birds, and no entreaty or bribe would induce an old Tintadgel quarry-man to kill me one. — Note in the publishtd edition of Hawker* s Poetical Works, t The castle mound of the former residence of the Barons of Bottreau is the sole relic of their race. — Ibid, 1 64 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. The pilot heard his native bells Hang on the breeze in fitful swells ; " Thank God," with reverent brow he cried, " We make the shore with eveningfs tide." " Come to thy God in time 1" It was his marriage chime : Youth, manhood, old age past, His bell must ring at last *' Thank God, thou whining knave, on land, But thank, at sea, the steersman's hand," The captain's voice above the gale : " Thank the good ship and ready sail" " Come to thy God in time !" , Sad grew the boding chime : "Come to thy God at last!" Boomed heavy on the blast. Uprose that sea I as if it heard The mighty Master's signal word : What thrills the captain's whitening lip ? The death-groans of his sinking ship I " Come to thy God in time I" Swung deep the funeral chime ; " Grace, mercy, kindness past, Come to thy God at last 1" Long did the rescued pilot tell — When grey hairs o'er his forehead fell, While those around would hear and weep- That fearful judgment of the deep. " Come to thy God in time I*' He read his native chime : Youth, manhood, old age past, His bell rung out at last Still, when the storm of Bottreau's waves Is wakening in his weedy caves, Those bells which sullen surges hide Peal their deep notes beneath the tide : " Come to thy God in time I" Thus saith the ocean chime ; Storm, billow, whirlwind past, " Come to thy God at last ! " R. S. Hawker. Aunt C. A great lesson of thankfulness. I have still another Bell poem of Mr. Hawker's for you, on the ringers of Lancell's Tower, who all rang at the accession of George III,, and all were able to ring fifty years after, when he kept his jubilee. Three rang for the coronation of George IV., and two were still able to pull the ropes for William IV. i66 ^'1 II lit Cliarlottc s Poetry Book. THE RINGERS OF LANCELUS TOWER. They meet once more ! that ancient band, With furrowed cheek and faih'ng hand ; One peal to-day they fain would ring, The jubilee of England's king. They meet once more I but where are now The sinewy arm, the laughing brow, The strength that hailed, in happier times. King George the Third with lusty chimes ? Yet proudly gaze on that lone tower, No goodlier sight hath hall or bower ; Meekly they strive — and closing day Gilds with soft light their locks of grey. Hark ! proudly hark ! with that true tone They welcomed him to land and throne ; So ere they die they fain would ring The jubilee of England's king. Hearts of old Cornwall, fare ye well I Fast fade such scenes from field and dell ; How wilt thou lack, my own dear land. Those trusty arms, that faithful band ! Aunt C. There ! Now you may look over Retsch's beautiful outline drawings to the " Song of the Bell," L Bells. 167 and get Alice to explain them to you. It is interesting to know that the designs were taken from a party of friends at Munich, who performed a set of tableaux vivants from Schiller's "Song of the Bell," for the benefit of some poor people who had lost their pro- perty in a fire. EVENING XII. FROGS AND TOADS. TURNCOATS. Said a little black Tadpole to another, That happened to be his elder brother, " Pray, what strange creature is that I hear Croaking so loud ?" "A Frog, my dear," Said the brother, " and there he sits." " I ne'er Saw an uglier monster, I declare," Said little Taddy, wriggling his tail In an off-hand fashion that could not fail To show his contempt " It is really pleasure. And satisfaction no words can measure. To think that we are so smooth and slim. So handsome, so — very unlike him." " To be sure," said his brother, bobbing and blinking- " To be sure, I am just of your way of thinking." The air was mild, and the sun was strong. The Tadpoles were turned to frogs ere long. r Frogs and Toads. 169 The little one croaked, the big one croaked ; At last said the younger, " Of course we joked That day in the ditch, for there 's no denying — And in fact it *s truth past all replying — That, whether in mere or marsh or bog, The handsomest creature by far is a frog." " To be sure," said his brother, bowing and blinking — " To be sure, I am just of your way of thinking." Westwood's Berries and Blossoms. Alice. Well done. Tadpoles and Frogs ! Your self- complacency never fails. Here is the picture. Ed. Fat old Toad. What can you have to say for him } Aunt C. Thanks to Jane Taylor, he is going to speak for himself. THE TOAD'S JOURNAL. In a land for antiquities greatly renowned A traveller had dug wide and deep under ground, A temple for ages entombed, to disclose — When lo ! he disturbed in its secret repose A Toad, from whose journal it plainly appears It had lodged in that mansion some thousands of years. The roll which this reptile's long history records, A treat to the sage antiquarian affords : The sense by obscure hieroglyphics concealed. Deep learning, at length, with long labour revealed. I70 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. The first thousand years, as a specimen, take ; — The dates are omitted for brevity's sake. [one eye ; " Crawled forth from some rubbish, and winked with Half opened the other, but could not tell why ; Stretched out my left leg, as it felt rather queer, Then drew all together, and slept for a year- Awakened, felt chilly^-crept under a stone; Was vastly contented with living alone. One toe became wedged in the stone like a p^ ; Could not get it away — had the cramp in my leg ; Began half to wish for a neighbour at hand To loosen the stone, which was fast in the sand ; Pulled harder — then dosed, as I found 'twas no use ; — Awoke the next summer, and lo ! it was loose. Crawled forth from the stone when completely awake ; Crept into a corner, and grinned at a snake. Retreated, and found that I needed repose ; Curled up my damp limbs, and prepared for a dose : Fell sounder to sleep than was usual before. And did not awake for a century or more ; But had a sweet dream, as I rather believe : — Methought it was light, and a fine summer's eve ; And I in some garden deliciously fed In the pleasant moist shade of a strawberry bed. There fine speckled creatures claimed kindred with me, And others that hopped, most enchanting to see. Here long I regaled with emotion extreme ; — Awoke — disconcerted to find it a dream ; ir I i Frogs and Toads. 171 Grew pensive^-discovered that life is a load ; Began to get weary of being a Toad ; Was fretful at first, and then shed a few tears." — Here ends the account of the first thousand years. Moral. It seems that life is all a void, On selfish thoughts alone employed : That length of days is not a good, Unless their use be understood ; While if good deeds one year engage, That may be longer than an age ; But if a year in trifles go. Perhaps you 'd spend a thousand so. Time cannot stay to make us wise — We must improve it as it flies. Jane Taylor. Grace. And here is THE TOAD'S GOOD-BYE TO THE CHILDREN. Good-bye, little children, I 'm going away In my snug little home all winter to stay ; I seldom get up, I 'm tucked in my bed. And as it grows colder I cover my head. I sleep very quietly all winter through. And really enjoy it, there 's nothing to do ; The flies are all gone, so there 's nothing to eat. And I 'm glad of this time to take a good sleep. 172 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. My bed is a nice little hole in the ground, Where, snug as a dormouse, in winter I 'm found ; You might think that long fasting would make me grow But no, I stay plump as when I go in. [thin, And now, little children, good-bye one and all, Some warm day next spring I will give you a call ; I am quite sure to know when to get out of bed. When I feel the warm sun shining down on my head. Aunt C. That is American, and nameless. Frogs and Toads have made a figure in fable and fairy tale, but scarcely in poetry. Still, I have one poem for Alice, out of the Silver Store ; but Grace will enter into it better if I give her the explanations before instead of after. I cannot tell who Bishop Benno was, unless he was a certain Benignus, Bishop of Autun, and there is no note about him. However, he, like all clergy of his Church, had to say his portion of the Breviary every day. This consists of many of the prayers and canticles which are used in our daily service still. When the bell called Angelus rang at sunset, he began saying his office, walking beside a marsh, where the croaking of the frogs disturbed him. Well, we are asked to believe that they stopped when I Frogs and Toads. 173 he bade them be silent ; but he was saying the Bene- dicite, which is, as you know, the Song of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in the Fire — " O all ye works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord ! " This is the way the hymn rebuked him. BISHOP BENNO AND THE FROG& At the closing of the day Bishop Benno took his way, With his book beneath his arm, Through the meadows for a stroll, The disturbance of his soul To reduce again to calm. Walking by a marish bank. Where the yellow iris lank Shot its bluish, bending sheath, Whilst upon the surface, light Floated chalices of white, Anchored to the slime beneath. Where about the margin grew Clusters of celestial blue. And the bog-bean speckled pink, And the mare-tails with their spines, Stood and shook in shadowy lines, Wavering along the brink. 174 ^Iiint Cliarlottc s Poetry Book, Clearly from the minster tower, Tolling at the twilight hour. Salutation spoke the belL* Then the Bishop slowly took And unclasped his ofiice-book To recite his canticle. Walking in the meadow grass. By the water still as glass, He could lift his voice and pray; Reading in his Breviary, Repeating Benedicite As he wended on his way. Perched on broken bulrush shaft, Crouched on lily's leafy raft, Sitting in a row on logs, Squatted on each muddy ledge Sentinelled along the edge Of the water, were the frogs ; With their voices very shrill. In a loud prolonging thrill, Half a chirrup, half a cry ; Every little gullet shakes, As its clamour from it breaks, Deafening the passer-by. * The Angelas rings at noon and sunset. Frogs and Toads. 175 Bishop Benno halting stood, Looking at them in a mood Discontented; he could find Saying the "Three Children's Song/' As he paced the bank along, No tranquillity of mind. "O ye Frogs! when Bishops praise God, ye should amend your ways. And be quiet for a while." Thus he spake, and at the word They were silent, naught was heard ; He continued, with a smile — "All ye green things on the earth, Bless the Lord who gave you birth, And for ever magnify; All ye fountains that are poured From your sources, praise the Lord, And for ever magnify. "All ye seas and floods that roll. Praise the Lord from pole to pole. And for ever magnify; All ye teeming things that dwell In the waters, praise as well. And for ever magnify." / ^ ^1 Hilt C/iaf'i^::t s Fee try Book. Sudden Benno stopped. A flame Started to his brow, in shame. As he did within debate — "What I doth the Creator love Praises from the things that move. And from things inanimate? Tie upon me! Am I sure My intent is half as pure^ Praises as acceptable. As the strain, though loud and harsh. Of these dwellers in the marsh ? What am I, that I can tell?" Turning to the swamp, he cried, "Sitters by the water-side, Do not ye your hymns for^o. I release you from the ban. Praise the God, Frog and Man — Cantate fratres Domino"* S. Baring Gould. * Sing, brethren, to the LoitL EVENING XIII. THE BABY. Aunt C. As Edmund does not favour us this evening, we are to treat ourselves to a collection of verses on the Baby ! Grace. Oh ! that will be delightful. Alice. Only we must have something he will like, if he comes to-morrow. Aunt C. Never fear ; I shall have a bear-garden that he cannot fail to appreciate. Let us begin with one in Scotch, said to be by Hugh Miller. I will tell you first that he was born in 1802, in Fife, son to a sailor who was lost at sea when his son was a little child. In a book you will some day enjoy, called My Schools and Schoolmasters, Hugh tells of his earnest love of picking up all kinds of knowledge, especially of natural objects, while he went to the village school. When he had to i;S ^liDit Cliarloitc^ s Poetry Book, begin life for himself, he became a stone-mason, and this led him to use his eyes and thoughts, so that he made great discoveries on the structure of the rocks, and also about the fossil creatures they contained. He had a great command of language, and expressed all that he had to say so well that his writings gained attention, and he was acknowledged as one of the greatest geologists of the day. He was a newspaper editor, and wrote much that was very useful and good, for he was a thoroughly earnest religious man, and never forgot that his work should be to the glory of God. His writings are full of beautiful descriptions, and his death in 1856 was a great loss. Now we will read these pretty lines. They bear his name in an American collection, so I hope they are his. THE BABIE. Nae shoon to hide her tiny toes, Nae stockings on her feet ; Her supple ankles white as snaw, Or early blossoms sweet. Her simple dress of sprinkled pink, Her double dimpled chin, Her puckered lip and bonnie mou*, Wi' nae, nae tooth within. The Baby. 179 Her een sae liljie her mother's een — Two gentle liquid things ; Her face sae like an angel's face — We Ve glad she hasna wings. Hugh Miller. Aunt C. Do you understand the Scotch, Gracie 1 Grace. All except een. Alice. They are eyes — "gentle liquid things." Well, Edmund need not laugh at us, since that is a man's poem. Aunt C. So IS this. It is written by a happy young father, who looked so boy-like, that a stranger would not believe that his pretty verses were about his own baby, till he opened a parcel and showed a tiny pair of blue shoes that he had been buying for her. I think I have heard that she had wings, as Hugh Miller said, and that he did not keep her long. BABY MAY. Cheeks as soft as July peaches, Lips whose velvet scarlet teaches Poppies paleness ; round, large eyes. Ever great with new surprise ; Minutes filled with shadeless gladness, Minutes just as brimmed with sadness ; i8o Aunt Cttarlottes Poetry Book. Happy smiles and wailing cries. Crows and laughs and tearful eyes. Lights and shadows swifter bom Than on wind-swept autumn com ; Ever new some tiny notion, Making every limb all motion ; Catching up of legs and arms, Throwings back and small alarms, Clutching fingers, straightening jerks. Twining feet whose each toe works, Kickings up and straining risings, Mother's ever new surprisings ; Hands all wants, and looks all wonder At all things the heavens under ; Tiny scorns of mild reprovings, That have more of love than lovings ; Mischiefs done with such a winning Archness that we prize such sinning ; Breakings dire of plates and glasses, Graspings small of all that passes ; Pullings off of all that 's able To be caught from tray or table ; Silences, small meditations, Deep as thoughts or cares for nations ; Breaking into wisest speeches, In a tongue that nothing teaches. All the thoughts of whose possessing Must be wooed to light by guessing ; The Baby. i8i Slumbers, such sweet angel seemings, That we 'd ever have such dreamings, Till from sleep we see thee breaking, And we 'd always have thee waking ; Wealth for which we know no measure, Pleasure high above all pleasure, Gladness brimming over gladness, Joy in care, delight in sadness, Loveliness beyond completeness, Sweetness distancing all sweetness. Beauty all that beauty may be — That 's May Bennett — that 's my Baby. W. C. Bennett. Alice. Oh ! it is a sweet little poem, and it makes it sweeter perhaps, though sadder, to hear that such happiness lasted so short a time. Aunt C. You will like another father's supposed dialogue with his little one. It is Dr. George Mac- donald's, some of whose fairy tales, such as "The Light Princess," you know. WHERE DID YOU COME FROM? " Where did you come from, Baby dear ?" " Out of the everywhere into here.*' " Where did you get your eyes so blue ?" " Out of the sky as I came through." 1 82 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. " What makes the light in them sparkle and spin ?" " Some of the starry spikes left in." " Where did you get that little tear?" ** I found it waiting when I got here." *' What makes your forehead so smooth and high ? " " A soft hand stroked it as I went by." " What makes your cheek like a warm white rose ?" '* I saw something better than anyone knows." " Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss ?" " Three angels gave me at once a kiss." *' Where did you get that pearly ear ?" " God spoke, and it came out to hear." " Where did you get these arms and hands ?" '' J^ove made them into hooks and bands." ** Feet, whence did you come, you darling things ?" " From the same box as the angels' wings." " How did they all come just to be you V " God thought of me, and so I grew." " But how did you come to us, you dear V " God thought of you, and so I am here." George Macdonald. Grace. Oh 1 that is pretty ! Aunt C. I like those two last replies very much. They have all the truth in them. And here are some L The Baby. 183 more words put into a baby's mouth by the Rev. Henry Francis Lyte, the author of the hymn, " Abide with me." It is — THE INFANTS ADDRESS TO DEPARTING DAYLIGHT. Beautiful Daylight, stay, oh stay, Nor fly from the world and me away. To darken the skies so blue and bright. And take the green fields from my lonely sight. No birds will talk to me from the tall tree. Nor flowers appear looking and laughing to me ; Kind voices I hear, and kind faces I view. But I can't talk with them, little birds, as with you ; I know not their language, their ways, and their looks, Nor care for their candles, pens, pencils, and books. Then, beautiful Daylight, fly not yet, Few suns have I seen yet rise or set ; And when each day with its pleasures is o'er, I fear they will never come back any more. A stranger I am in this world below. And have much of its wonders to mark and know. I want to see more of each fairy scene. To trace sounds and objects, and learn what they mean ; To gaze on the features of her on whose breast I am fed and folded and sung to rest — Who kisses me softly, and calls me her dear — And all the new friends who are kind to me here. 1 84 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. Then stay, sweet Daylight, mine eyes to bless, I know Night little, and love it less. • ••«••• And if upon one of those clouds I could lie^ That have run to the verge of the western sky» And there, in rosy companionship seated. Look down on the sun from the earth retreated. If aloft in those bright fleecy clouds I could lay me, And call on the winds through the skies to convey me, I 'd ride round the world, the perennial attendant On Daylight, wherever it shone most resplendent. Over hills, over fogs I would take my glad flight. And bathe and revel in rivers of light ; The moon and the stars I would leave behind. Nor stop any object on earth to mind, Unless for her baby dear mother should cry, Then I *d glide down to tell her how happy was I ; I *d kiss off her tears, and wish her good day. And again on my travels, away, away. Sweet bird, it is vain thy suit to press. The Daylight heeds not thy fond address ; On glittering pinion away he flies To meet other wishes and light other skies. The will of his God he goes to obey, Nor at earthly bidding will haste to stay. A child of light, sweet bird, art thou, Nor needst a veil for thy conscious brow ; The Baby. 185 No deeds thy tiny hands have done Need fear the broad eye of the flaring sun ; And the pleasant and pure of this world of woe Is all that thy delicate spirit can know. The bright Sun of Righteousness never declines. The light of the Gospel eternally shines, Adds zest to our joys, plucks the sting from our woes. Sends peace to our life, and joy to its close ; Come joy or come sorrow, the same it will stay, And shine more and more to the perfect day, Till grace is glory, and faith is sight. And God, as at first, 'mid His sons of light. Receives His homage of song and love. And thou art with Him for ever above. Rev. H. F. Lyte {sUghily abridged). Aunt C. And we will finish our babies with some verses of Mr. Hawker's, suggested by his having been called to baptise a little cottage baby on the day and hour of the State christening of the Prince of Wales. THE BAPTISM OF THE PEASANT AND THE PRINCE. I climbed a poor and narrow stair. The Prince's christening day — I sought a cottage bed, for there A loving mother lay. 1 86 ^unt Charlotte s Poetry Book. With covering thin, and scanty vest. Her babe was on her arm: It was the strong love in her breast That kept that infant wann. I came, a country minister, A servant of the Lord ; To bless that mother's child for her With Water and the Word The dim light struggling o'er the room Scarce reached the lowly bed : And thus 'mid woe, and want, and gloom, The Sacrament was shed. Then said I — for the woman smiled As she took back her son, — " Be glad ! for lo ! that little child Is 'mong God's children one. " Henceforth it has a name on high, Where blessed angels shine : Nay, one will leave his native sky To watch this babe of thine. " Be glad ! this very day they meet In a far loftier scene. With blessing and with vow to greet The offspring of a queen. The Baby. 187 " Bright faces beam in bannered halls, Around the noble boy : And princes teach the echoing walls The glory of their joy. ** Yet will the self-same words be said, Our Ups have uttered now ; And water such as here we shed Must bless that princely brow. "One cross the twain shall seal and sign. An equal grace be poured ; One Faith, one Church, one Heaven will join The labourer and his lord." "Thanks be to God!" in language mild The humble woman said, " Who sends such kindness to my child Here in its mother's bed. "And bless our Queen with health and grace, Hers is a happy reign : Oh ! one smile of her baby's face Pays her for all her pain." R. S. Hawker. EVENING XIV. BEARS. Grace. Here 's Edmund, Aunt Charlotte. I told him you had something he would care about this time. Edmund. Why, you had nothing but babies last time! Alice. Yes, and every one of the poems was by a man, and some by great men. Weren't they. Aunt ? Aunt C. So great, that they can afibrd to delight in what is small. Edmund. But what have you to-night ? Is it any- thing worth hearing ? Aunt C. You shall judge. It is a story, very old indeed, from the collection made by Baron Grimm. Grace. German Popular Tales; the darling old book ! Aunt C. Even so, and put into verse by a very clever gentleman, now dead, whose wife has kindly given it to me for you. THE BEAR AND THE GOBLIN. Spring up, my boy, to your father's knee, And I '11 tell you a tale Annie told me ; She learned the story from Herr von Grimm, And he says Gammer Grithel told it him ; So my boy shall hear how we whiled away The dark, the dreary wet audit day. " A health," the Monarch of Norway cried. As the revel grew warm, one Christmas-tide ; " A health to my brother of Denmark, tell What pledge shall we send that we greet him well ? Up, Huntsman, and name the present meet To be laid at my brother of Denmark's feet." " If a worthy present my Liege prepares/* Quoth he, " be it one of our lordly Bears, So may they know at his royal court The kittens that make our children's sport." ** Well spoke my stalwart huntsman there ; But which of my wilds will give the Bear, To carry him deftly before the King, Or encounter the perilous journeying?" —1 I90 ^liDit Charlotte s Poetry Book, " My Liege, I chanced in my toils to get A youngling Bear, and I have him yet ; He grew in strength as he grew in years, And has grown to be noblest of model Bears ; The glorious fellow — as white as snow — He will track my steps wherever I go ; He can sport as blithe as my children can, And abroad he behaves like a gentleman — Myself and he our duty know — Let your Grace but give us the word to go." The eve is drear, dense gloom the sun enshrouds. The rising gusts drive fast the gathering clouds, A peasant through the cheerless forest goads His slow team — scarce can keep the ill-tracked road. He starts — what met his eye ? — a strange, strange pair- On kindly terms they seemed — a man and Bear ; The man arrayed in huntsman's draggled suit — Wet — way-worn — cold alike — he and the brute. The huntsman speaks — " A pretty affair I am likely to make of this, my Bear, With the storm for my lullaby — sheets of snow — And thee for my supperless bed-fellow. Ho, peasant, spare me, if you can. Shelter for me and my countryman." The peasant stared, and he bit his lip. " I never was slow in good fellowship ; Bears. 1 9 1 To yourself I may open my cottage-door, But your friend stays out — I can do no more, For I never set eyes on such beast before." Again and again the huntsman craved : " He is shaggy and rough, but he 's well-behaved ; Though huge he is mild, and, upon my life, Will do nothing at all to affront your wife." Again and again he shook his head : " It may all be true that you have said, But my dog and my cat, and my ducks and geese. Do you think them likely to rest in peace ? I know them better, and off they '11 go, I shall see them no more, be he civil or no — So come yourself if you think it good. But your honest companion must keep the wood. Yet stay — ^a thought comes across my brain. For I wish you well through the hurricane ; To be sure there is shelter that I can give, Though I hold it a sorry alternative. My own old house — you are welcome quite To battle for that with the Golden Sprite. I '11 tell thee a tale as this path we tread. We shall pass it, it may be, a league ahead. 'Twas a cheerful home to myself and my dame, That house — ^till the terrible Goblin came. I remember the storm began to blow. Most like the storm that is rising now ; 192 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. The lights were out, and at twelve o'clock Our door gave way to his thundering knock ; Then all was clatter, no peace we knew Till the stars were dim and our game cock crew ; And since that time, from twelve till day. Has he knocked and trampled and rattled away. He draws the spigot, and wastes the ale ; He turns the pigs all among the kale ; He breaks the eggs, and he gallops the cows ; And unlooses the team in the clover to browse ; The plates and dishes he sets to dance, With jugs, mugs, crockery, pots and pans. We saw him not, but well I know The sledge-like force of his murderous blow ; And he left one morning, as he withdrew, A queer little crooked, high-heeled shoe. My wife is mild, and we bore our guest As long as nature would bear such pest ; But as nature such pest not long could bear. We settled to move and to leave him there. I built a cabin below the hill. He stayed behind — and he stays there still — But the saucy imp so wished us gone, That he worked for a night to help us on ; And the sun's first beam revealed to view Our waggon packed, and the horses to ; And a shrill sharp voice on our ears there fell — * Bye — neighbours — bye — and I wish you well ;' Bears. 193 But — to the house — if you still intend The venture, you and your ugly friend, Decide at once, for you see the house. St. Hubert speed your night's carouse, And for aught I know of this noble sprite^ He may not be at home to-night" Then the huntsman raised a troubled eye. And he scanned the forest, and scanned the sky. '* The storm that is rising might drown a duck ; Come what may come, we will try our luck. To my mind, nothing comes more amiss Than to tide the storm in a night like this — Your troublesome neighbour may think so too. Then comes a perilous deed to do — But my sturdy Bruin is true and tough ; He may find your Goblin in work enough. Had your quarrelsome friend been north, he there Might have learned his lesson, and been aware Of the worth of a hug from a Norway Bear. Then toss us a faggot, and come what may. My comrade and I will abide the fray." So they took the faggot, and in they hied. And they kindled a blaze at the fireside. " The warmth is good, but, my Bear, I guess We must go to our couches supperless. And no great matter," the huntsman spoke. And wrapped his limbs in his ample cloak. _ 194 ^unt Charlotte s Poetry Book. Bruin rolled him up in a huge white ball, The fire burnt out, and 'twas silence all — Till the clock struck twelve — then a wilder din Uprose — and in skipped the mannikin — In his high-heeled shoes he stood three spans high. With a hump on his back, and a single eye, And a nose like a very ripe mulberry ; A high-peaked cap sat a-top of his head. His locks were yellow, his cap was red, And behind him a fine fat kid he trailed — No wonder the heart of the huntsman quailed ; He trembled and shrank as he heard the sprite Begin to mutter — " A roughish night ; But, thanks to the blockhead I hunted away, I 've a house of my own where I '11 feast and play ; Then roast kid be my dainty cheer. With good ale, to the crowing of Chanticleer ;" And, lo, no sooner said than done. The fire was raised, and the kid put on, And he merrily broached the ale (how came The luckless huntsman to miss that same ?) — And he skipped and danced before the hearth. And he tossed his cap in his boisterous mirth. Then he cleared his voice, and he pitched his key, And he rubbed his hands, and thus sang he — " Oh, 'tis weary enough abroad to bide In the shivery midnight blast ; Tis dreary enough alone to ride L Hungry and cold on the wintry wold, Where the drifting snow falls fast, But 'tis cheery enough to revel by night In the crackling faggot's light ; 'Tis merry enough to have and to hold The savoury roast and the nut-brown toast, With jolly good ale and old." Then he stayed his song, for he cast his eye To the corner where Bruin slept cosily ; Then softly crept to the creature's lair, And wonders what in the world was there — " Oh, one of the family, I suppose." Just then the Bear routed and showed his nose, And gave his ears a sort of drowsy shake, Neither quite asleep, nor at all awake. " Oh ho," quoth the Imp, " is it nothing more ? But I never saw one so large before ! Then how — ^and why — and whence came he ? Shall I hunt him out or let him be ? He may work some ill if he sleeps here twice ; And I 'm not afraid of the rats and mice. I have driven the rest of the stock away. And this shall not be the one to stay — " Here goes!" — and he reached him the iron spit, Returned a-tiptoe, and measured his hit. And swung the weapon above-end down. It fell like a bolt on the poor brute's crown. 196 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. He raised him slowly, did that Bear, And he shook his head, and he scratched his ear. And he opened first one eye, and then He opened the other, and gave a grin. Moved on, while the sprite gave a little back, And manned himself for a rough attack. Bruin raised his paw, and he let it fall. And the spit was jerked across the hall ; Then short the pause — they rush, they dos^ And the horrible din of the fray arose ; Here flew tables, and there flew chairs. With pots, pans, kettles, and earthen wares ; And now the elf on the neck of the bear Has wreathed one palm in his shaggy hair. While the other has dealt a dozen knocks, One such might have felled the sturdy ox. And now the Bear screws him underneath In his deathlike grasp till he pants for breath ; He writhes, he slips — he 's away, away ; Then up to the beam, but short his stay, And again and again they urge the fray. See, see, they pause, each throws an angry glance On each — they pause — now, Bruin, now advance. The foeman waxes faint, fast sinks his fire, The sturdy limbs were never made to tire. On, Bruin, on, he moves too late, too late, The wily imp no longer tempts his fate ; His pointed cap he snatches from his brow, Full in poor Bruin's face directs the blow, And, ere his foe can clear his swimming eyes, Over the hills and far away he flies. " Well done, my Bruin, stout and good, You have done your work as I knew you would ; You have trimmed his locks, and I think your ears After all are as smooth as another Bear's. As our friend is gone, let us make the most Of the supper left by the runaway host." Then his kid they ate, and his ale they quaffed. And they drank his health, and merrily laughed, Till worn and tired, down they lay ; Their dreams were sweet, and they slept till day. The morning came, and on they sped. And they met the peasant some league ahead. So blythe they journeyed, the peasant stared. And wanted to know how the Goblin fared. Quoth the huntsman, *' I think your matters mend ;" And he told him the tale from end to end. " We thrashed the sprite, and away he ran. And I hope you are clear of the gentleman ; He left behind him his ale and kid, And it was lucky for us he did ; The traveller famine ill endures, And shelter was all we had of yours ; And so farewell, we journey forth. And I think we have left you shelter's worth.'* 198 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. Then they hied them on once more full fain To reach the court of the royal Dane ; But what their course, or what their lot. Or whether they found the King or not ; I hope they did, but, upon my word« I cannot tell, for I never heard. Methinks it is well enough that I can Recount the fate of the countryman. He pondered long, and he pondered deep. And he thought that at night his watch he 'd keep, And eye his door, and ascertain If his foe would come to the charge again. Three nights he watched — and not one night Did he see a vestige of the sprite ; He began to think that the time was come For a safe return to his cherished home. Next morning, as his work he ph'ed, He heard a voice by the forest side — A dismal voice, a hoarse, low croak, Untunable, the silence broke, And he marvelled how it might befall Who sang so ill should sing at all ; Half-frighted, half-amazed, did he Indulge his curiosity. Unearthly did that strain appear. And thus it fell upon his ear — " Oh, 'tis weary enough abroad to bide In the shivery midnight blast ; 'Tis dreary enough alone to ride Hungry and cold on the wintry wold, Where the drifting snow falls fast" Cowering beneath the cold, wet bank, In woeful plight the Goblin shrank ; No covering on his matted head, His jacket torn to many a shred ; His legs were scratched and smeared with blood By brambles of the underwood. At once the peasant's courage woke. He rallied, and must have his joke — " Well sung, my mannikin, I crave. Your worship, give us t' other stave." The imp jumped up — his visage fell. " Peasant, thy cat — where is she ? — telL" " My cat ? — what cat ?" " Thy great white cat That keeps thy empty house?" " Oh that I Alive and well, and full of play, She brought five kittens yesterday." " Five kittens ?" screamed the elf. " Yes, five — They make the cottage quite alive — So white — such soft and gentle paws, Such whiskers, such well-furnished jaws. So sportive — they 're as like the mother As any pea is like another ; The old one likes them to be seen — Why don't you come } Where have you been ?" " / come ?" quoth the Goblin, with a bounce ; " Did I not see the mother once ? 200 j4unt Charlotte's Poetry Book. Once is enough — or once too much — I can't stand half-a-dozen such. Five kittens and the old one — no — The place is doomed, so off I go. Six monster cats about thy table, The land is uninhabitable 1" So said, so done, and off he springs, Muttering unutterable things. The peasant gave his hands a clap. Flings after him his pointed cap, Resumed his house, and from that mom He slept in quiet to daylight's dawn ; But he never forgot in his revelling " A health to old Norway's Cat and King I" Rev, Francis Dawson. Grace. The man said what was not true. Aunt C. That can't be helped, my dear ; the story is an old one, and came down from ancient heathen times, when truth was not esteemed the same way. Edmund. Besides, it was only a goblin. Alice. I suppose truth is truth, whether concerned with a goblin or not Aunt C. Well, as we are not likely to meet with one, we need not stop to settle whether it is lawful to deceive him, but go on to a ballad that I hope is true. It comes from a book of essays, named Society and Solitude^ compiled by the great American author, Mr. Emerson. GEORGE NIDIVER. Men have done great deeds, And bards have sung them well ; I of good George Nidiver Now the tale will tell« In Califomian mountains A hunter bold was he. Keen his eye and sure his aim As any you might see. A little Indian boy Followed him everywhere, Eager to share the hunter's joy, The hunter's meal to share. And when the bird or deer Fell by the hunter's skill, The boy was always near To help with right good will. One day as, through the cleft Between two mountains steep. Shut in both right and left, Their questing way they keep, 202 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. They see two grisly bears. With hunger fierce and fell. Rush at them unawares Right down the narrow delL The boy turned round with screams. And ran with terror wild ; One of the pair of savage beasts Pursued the shrieking child. The hunter raised his gun — He knew oju charge was all ; And through the boy's pursuing foe He sent his only ball. The other on George Nidiver Came on with dreadful pace ; The hunter stood unarmed, And met him face to face. I say unanned he stood Against those dreadful paws ; The rifle butt or club of wood Could stand no more than straws. George Nidiver stood still, And looked him in the face ; The wild beast stopped amazed, Then came with slackening pace. Still firm the hunter stood, Although his heart beat high ; Again the creature stopped, And gazed with wondering eye. The hunter met his gaze, Nor yet an inch gave way ; The bear turned slowly round, And slowly moved away. What thoughts were in his mind It would be hard to spell ; What thoughts were in George Nidiver's I rather guess than tell But sure that rifle's aim. Swift choice of generous part, Showed in its passing gleam The depths of a brave heart. Edmund. That was a real brave man ! I suppose his looks really awed the bear. Grace. May I read you some verses in the Magazine /c^ the Young about a bear "i LITTLE MAY. A STORY OF NORWAY. Little May, our tripping fairy, Ever laughing, ever gay, Tenderly we love our darling Little May. In the great green woods aromid ii% Free from care, she loves to play. Never fear can toudi our trcasiuc ^ Little May. There she watches^ lightly trippings Hunts the moth and lizard grey. Nimble fingers^ nimbler feet has Little May. Quick they must be to escape her. Quick to speed their onward way. Or her dimpled hands will clutch them. Little May. Sullen Norway looked its brightest, On one lovely summer's day, When she wooed the early sunning. Little May. All around the dewy flowers Sparkling in the sunlight lay, And she pulled them up by handfuls. Little May. Now a butterfly flits by her, Decked with eyes and colours gay. And she longs to catch the treasure, Little May. Swiftly through the tangled thicket, Heedless from her home to stray, She pursues the painted beauty. Little May. Deeper, deeper in the forest, Further from her home away ; Oh 1 when wilt thou stay thy wand'ring, Little May ? Soon we missed her from our cottage, Missed her where she loved to play, Vainly called, and vainly sought for Little May. Lost amid that mighty forest. Now with none to show the way ; Can you find the home you fled from, Little May ? All that morn in vain we sought her, Sought her all the livelong day. Late into the evening sought her, Little May. When the pine tree summits glittered With the evening's golden ray. Still we sought, though nigh despairing, Little May. Then at length we stopped to listen — Why we did it, who can say — Heard the sound of childish laughter. Little May. Yes, we knew her gentle accents. Hurried then our flagging way. Pushed aside the boughs, and saw our Little May. 2o6 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. On a verdant plot reclining, At his length a brown bear lay, Near him stood in mirthful pleasure Little May. Garlands she had wreathed about him. Placing, in her childish way, One upon his shaggy forehead, Little May. With her dimpled hand she stroked him. Pulled his ears in gentle play. Called him Pretty Bear, and kissed him, Little May. Then she saw us, cried, " O father, I 'm so glad you 're come ; but say, Does not the poor bear look pretty ?** Little May. Like a shadow, all our terror. All our sorrow fled away ; You had tamed the savage monster. Little May. £. N. N. EVENING XV. DOGS. Alice. Now, Edmund, we are to have dogs to- night Edmund. More shame for you not to have had them before. Aunt C Strange to say, much as dogs are loved, I do not find so many interesting verses about them as some other far less favourite animals ; and those that exist are chiefly melancholy — either the faithful dog or his master dying. Edmund. I shall go, if you read anything doleful. Aunt C. Will you listen to this fearful tragedy, then, of a dog and a rabbit ? It is from Little Folks^ for February, 1880. 2o8 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. THE ADVENTURES OF A SKYE-TERRIER AND A RABBIT. It was a fluffy rabbit ; It had a horrid stare ; Cluas saw it on the table, And said, " How czmtyau there ?** Young Cluas was a petted dog, A petted dog was he ; And he said, " No love shall come between My master dear and me." His master was a boy named Ned ; And he went to the fair, And bought a fine morocco ball And the fluffy rabbit there. Then Cluas pricked his ears and growled ; His eyes were all aflame ; He spied a string, the which he jerked. And down the rabbit came. And motionless poor Bunny sat Upon the parlour floor. And stared at Cluas, which enraged Young Cluas more and more. And Cluas howled and growled and barked ; But silent Bunny sat. Said Cluas, " You provoke me more Than even Spot, the cat. Dogs. 209 " What, won't you speak ? I '11 make you, soon ;" He seized the piece of string, And up and down and round the room Went roughly scampering. The rabbit stood upon his head Or tail — it did not matter ; The wheels went round, and cracked and creaked, And made a dreadful clatter. The rabbit's head was banged about, 'Gainst fender, fire-irons, chair, 'Gainst table-legs and sideboard doors ; But what did Cluas care ? So angry with his rival, he But wishes to destroy him ; He doesn't know why Master Ned Should bring him to annoy him. Then Cluas, breathless, waits awhile. The rabbit calmly eyes him ; But not a word does Bunny say. Which somewhat doth surprise him. *' You stupid creature, won't you speak, You fluffy, puffy Bunny ? I 'm in a rage, I 'm not in play. Though you may think me funny." He shook the rabbit, tossed him up. As he had been a ball ; And still the rabbit bore it well. And spoke no word at alL Then Cluas seized him by the neck. And tore his skin and bit him ; He scratched and worried him, and 'gainst The floor he banged and hit hinu He shook him all to pieces, till There scarce was left a hair To tell that once upon a time A rabbit had been there. To shreds poor Bunny's skin he tore, To splinters, stand and wheels ; And then young Cluas rests awhile, And hot and thirsty feels. And panting Cluas set him down, The small remains to view ; Said he, " I 'd do the thing again, If I had it to do. " There shall no fluffy rabbit come Between me and my master ; And if he brings another home. There '11 be the same disaster." His master came, his master saw, And loud did cry and roar, To see his broken rabbit lie In fragments on the floor. His grief was great, and, what is more, I think it was sincere ; For though it neither ran nor talked, He held that rabbit dean Then Cluas' heart was touched ; he came And licked his master's hand, And felt no naughtier dog than he Was living in the land. Edmund. That is funny ; but it is only fit for Grace. Aunt C. I fear you will say the same of THE TWO FRIENDS. My dog and I are faithful friends. We read and play together ; We tramp across the hills and fields, When it is pleasant weather. And when from school, with eager haste, I come along the street. He hurries on with bounding steps My glad return to meet 212 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. Then how he frisks along the road. And jumps up to my face ; And if I let him steal a kiss, I 'm sure it 's no disgrace. Ah, had he but the gift of speech But for a single day. How dearly should I love to hear The funny things he 'd say. And what he knows and thinks and feels Is written in his eye ; My faithful dog cannot deceive, And never told a lie. Come here, good fellow, while I read What other dogs can do ; And if I live when you have gone, I '11 write your history too, Susan Jewktt. Alice. I like the one I have here better than either of those you have read. Aunt C. Elizabeth Barrett ? Ah yes, there is a great charm in some of her poems, as well as great power in others. She was a young happy girl with one brother, to whom she was devoted, and her •acquirements were wonderful. She translated a Greek / tragedy — yes, Edmund, so that scholars esteem her translation ; but I am not sure whether she did so before or after her ill health began, and before she underwent her still greater trial of the loss of her brother. For several years she was very ill, and her life was despaired of, and many of her poems were written in a sick-room. Afterwards she partially recovered, married Mr. Browning — a poet himself Alice. Who wrote the " Pied Piper " and " How the News was brought to Aix." Aunt C. Yes, and much more besides that you have yet to read. They lived at Florence, for she could not bear the English climate; and their home is described as being like a dream of happiness until she died in 1861. Now you will like to hear her address to the good doggie who had been such a comfort to her in her illness and sorrow. TO FLUSH, MY DOa. Loving friend, the gift of one Who her own true faith has run Through thy lower nature ; Be my benediction said, With my hand upon thy head. Gentle fellow-creature. 214 ^unt Charlotte's Poetry Book. Like a lady's ringlets brown Flow thy silken ears adown Either side demurely Of thy silver-tinted breast. Shining out from all the rest Of thy body purely. Darkly brown thy body is. Till the sunshine striking this Alchemise its dulness ; When the sleek curls manifold Flash all over into gold With a burnished fulness. Underneath my stroking hand Startled eyes of hazel bland Kindling, growing larger ; Up thou leapest with a sprinj Full of prank, and curvetting Like a charger. Leap I thy broad tail waves a light, Leap I thy slender feet arc bright, Canopied in fringes ; Leap I those tasselled cars of thine Flicker strangely, fair and fine, Down their golden inches. rr Yet, my pretty sportive friend^ Little is 't to such an end That I praise thy rareness ; Other dogs may be thy peers, Haply, in these drooping ears And this glossy fairness. But of thee shall it be said, This dog watched beside a bed Day and night unweary ; Watched within a curtained room. Where no sunbeam broke the gloom Round the sick and dreary. Roses, gathered for a vase. In that chamber died apace, Beam and breeze resigning ; This dog only waited on. Knowing that when light is gone, Love remains for shining. Other dogs in thymy dew Tracked the hares, and followed through Sunny moor or meadow ; This dog only crept and crept Next a languid cheek that slept, Sharing in the shadow. 1 2i6 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. Other dogs of loyal cheer Bounded at the whistle clear, Up the woodside hieing ; This dog only watched in reach Of a faintly-uttered speech, Or a louder sighing. And if one or two quick tears Dropped upon his glossy ears. Or a sigh came double, Up he sprang in eager haste. Fawning, fondling, breathing fast, In a tender trouble. And this dog was satisfied If a pale thin hand would glide Down his dewlaps sloping, — Which he pushed his nose within. After, — platforming his chin On the palm left open. This dog, if a friendly voice Call him now to blither choice Than such chamber-keeping, " Come out ! " praying from the door, — Presseth backward as before. Up against me leaping. Therefore to this dog will I Tenderly, not scornfully, Render praise and favour : With my hand upon his head. Is my benediction said, Therefore, and for ever. And because he loves me so, Better than his kind will do Often man or woman. Give I back more love again Than dogs often take of men. Leaning from my Human. Blessings on thee, dog of mine. Pretty collars make thee fine, Sugared milk make fat thee I Pleasure wag on in thy tail. Hands of gentle motion fail Nevermore to pat thee I Downy pillow take thy head, Silken coverlet bestead, Sunshine help thy sleeping I No fly's buzzing wake thee up, No man break thy purple cup Set for drinking deep in. 2i8 j4unt Charlotte's Poetry Book. Whiskered cats arointed flee, Sturdy stoppers keep from thee Cologne distillations ; Nuts lie in thy path for stones, And thy feast-day macaroons Turn to daily rations ! Mock I thee, in wishing weal ? — Tears are in my eyes to feel Thou art made so straightly, Blessing needs must straighten too, — Little canst thou joy or do. Thou who lovest greatly. Yet be blessed to the height Of all good and all delight Pervious to thy nature ; Only loved beyond that line. With a love that answers thine, Loving fellow-creature ! £. B. Browning. Grace. What are Cologne distillations ? Edmund. Don't you know, nothing bullies a dog more than to make him smell Eau de Cologne f Aunt C As Mr. Hemerdon's clever paper on dogs says, " Great as is the sympathy between us and dogs. it is not in smell. What we enjoy is hateful to them, and they revel in what is most loathsome to us." Edmund. And why does she talk of "my Human"? Aunt C. She means it for human nature. Such a poetess may take liberties. Alice. Do you observe that whereas all our baby poems were by men, all our dog poems have been by women ? Edmund. Is this the best you can find ? Aunt C. Even Sir Walter Scott, dog-lover as he was, has no whole poem about dogs, though he often brings them in. There is the song to Ban and Buscar, the two hounds — Hie away, hie away, Over bank and over brae ; Where the copsewood is the greenest. Where the fountains glisten sheenest. Where the lady fern grows strongest, Where the morning dew lies longest. Where the black-cock sweetest sips it, Where the fairy latest trips it : Hie to haunts right seldom seen. Lovely, lonesome, cool, and green. Over bank and over brae. Hie away, hie away. Scott. 220 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. Edmund. That 's nothing about the dog. Aunt C. Will you have the description in the lay of the dog who met the young Buccleuch when he was lost in the wood ? — And hark ! and hark ! the deep-mouthed bark Comes nigher still, and nigher : Bursts on the path a dark blood-hound. His tawny muzzle tracked the ground, And his red eye shot fire. Soon as the wildered child saw he. He flew at him right furiouslie. I ween you would have seen with joy The bearing of the gallant boy. When, worthy of his noble sire, His wet cheek glowed 'twixt fear and ire I He faced the blood-hound manfully, And held his little bat on high ; So fierce he struck, the dog, afraid, At cautious distance hoarsely bayed, But still in act to spring ; When dashed an archer through the glade, And when he saw the hound was stayed, He drew his tough bow-string ; But a rough voice cried, " Shoot not, hoy ! Ho I shoot not, Edward — Tis a boy !" Scott. Edmund. That 's something like ! Grace. I don't like it. Poor little boy I Edmund. How does it go on ? Aunt C. Here is the book. See for yourself. Alice. The boy is all safe, Gracie ; don't be afraid. I suppose, now Edmund is absorbed in the " Lay/' we might read " Beth Gelert," or the two poems on the poor dog that watched by his dead master on Hel- vellyn. Aunt C. Or of Argus dying at Ulysses' feet, the only creature that recognised him ; but, like Edmund, I had rather not I cannot bear to dwell on the grief of a dumb creature ; so we will end cheerfully with our old friend Cowper's history of his spaniels intelligence. THE DOG AND WATER-LILY. The moon was shady, and soflb airs Swept Ouse's silent tide, When, 'scaped from literary cares, I wandered by its side. My dog, now lost in flags and reeds. Now starting into sight, Pursued the swallow o'er the meads With scarce a slower flight 22 2 j4unt Charlotte's Poetry Book. It was the time when Ouse displayed Its lilies newly blown ; Their beauties I intent surveyed, And one I wished my own. With cane extended far, I sought To steer it close to land; But still the prize, though nearly caught, Escaped my eager hand. Beau marked my unsuccessful pains With fixed, considerate face, And, puzzling, set his puppy brains To comprehend the case. But with a chirrup clear and strong, Dispersing all his dream, I thence withdrew, and followed long The windings of the stream. My ramble ended, I returned. Beau, trotting on before. The floating wreath again discerned, And, plunging, left the shore. I saw him, with that lily cropped. Impatient swim to meet My quick approach, and soon he dropped The treasure at my feet. Charmed with the sight. The world, I cried. Shall hear of this thy deed ; My dog shall mortify the pride Of man's superior breed. But chief myself I will enjoin, Awake at duty's call. To show a love as prompt as thine To Him who gives us all. COWPER. Aunt C. And here is another true story of a little doggie. VICK'S JUSTIFICATION. A TRUE STORY. We had risen early that summer mom. To bid farewell to our friend with the dawn — Our friend who was going to realms afar, To join his troop for the distant war. We all felt dull, our spirits sank. We hadn't the heart to play a prank ; We were wand'ring about, now in, now put, - When our ears were assailed by a terrible rout Our little dog, Vick, now loud she barks I It must be the baker's footsteps she marks. . Why does she bark with that savage yell ? That is a mystery none can tell ; 224 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. She always barks when she hears him nigh. Why will she bark at him ? why, oh, why ? A beating she '11 have, I greatly fear. I wish she would stop I oh dear, oh dear I My mother was sitting beside the fire ; As she stirred it to make the flame rise higher ; She hears a curious noise at the door — A scraping of something dragged over the floor. She rises up to see what comes there ; " Why, it 's only Vick, and I do declare She has dragged a stone from the ferns' own bed, A heavy stone almost as big as her head 1 ** Why does she take all this trouble, my dear, Bringing that heavy stone in here ? Oh, Vick, I think you 're a sad little goose. That stone to you can be of no use — " Too heavy to play with, to roll about, To cut your teeth on when we are out. To hide 'neath our dresses' flounces wide. And pretend there is a rat inside!" Then my father comes in with a heavy tread. And my heart sinks down like a lump of lead ; He '11 beat little Vick, I know he will ; Oh, why, when the baker comes, can't she be still I My father looks angry, a frown on his brow ; " That baker deserves all the barks, I trow ; He might have killed Vick ; I saw him just now From the rock-work seize a stone to throw. " That heavy stone put there by Ned, Had it hit her, the poor little thing had been dead ; I never will beat my doggie again For barking at that cruel swain." So my father speaks, to our delight. And we hasten to set the matter right " Then that is the stone she is bringing in, To show us why she makes such a din." She has dragged the stone from the gate alone, All up the path, o'er the lawn fresh mown ; She has dragged it in at the open door. Over the carpet, and over the floor, And laid it down at my mother's feet. That she her husband might entreat Never again his dog to beat, When she barks for a reason good and meet ! K, F. EVENING XVI. BUTTERFLIES. Alice. Edmund has deserted again; but here is Katie, who is very anxious to see some of your pictures, and hear the verses about them. ; Aunt C. I am very glad to see her, and I think we have one of the prettiest of the coloured drawings for to-night. We will begin, however, with this dialogue, from a book by a brother and sister, Charles and Mary Lamb. They were great friends of the Lake poets, but were complete Londoners themselves. Charles had a clerkship, and gave up his whole life and all plans of personal happiness to take care of his sister Mary, whose mind was from time to time affected, but who was in general a very bright and amiable person. Alice. Was not "Lamb's Tales," from Shakspere, written by them ? Butterflies. 227 Aunt C. Yes, and a book I used to delight In, called Mrs. Leicester's Scfiool. Katie. Oh, I know that book; there are beautiful stories in it. Aunt C Yes; this brother and sister wrote prose better than poetry, and I think they rather mistook their powers when they tried to produce a book like Ann and Jane Taylor's. This ** Butterfly" is one of the pieces I like best in it. THE BUTTERFLY. Sister. Do, my dearest brother John, Let that Butterfly alone. Brotlter. What harm now do I do ? You *re always making such a noise. Sister. O fie, John, none but naughty boys Say such rude words as you. Brother. Because you *re always speaking sharp, On the same thing you always harp ; A bird one may not catch, Nor find a nest, nor angle neither. Nor from the peacock pluck a feather. But you are on the watch To moralise and lecture still. Sister. And ever lecture, John, I will When such sad things I hear ; 228 ^unt Charlottes Poetry Book. But talk not now of what is past. The moments fly away too fast. Though endlessly they seem to last To that poor soul in fear. Brother. Well, soon (I say) 1 11 let it loose ; But, sister, you talk like a goose — There 's no soul in a fly. SisUr, It has a form and flbres flne. Were tempered by the Hand Divine That dwells beyond the sky. Look, brother, you have hurt its wing, And plainly by its fluttering You see it 's in distress. Gay, painted coxcomb, spangled beau, A Butterfly is called, you know. That 's always in full dress. The finest gentleman of all Insects he is, he gave a ball. You know, the poet wrote. Let 's fancy this the very same, And then you '11 own you 've been to blame To spoil his silken coat. Brother, Your dancing, spangled, powdered beau. Look, through the air I 've let him go. And now we 're friends again. And sure as he is in the air. From this time, Anne, I will take care And try to be humane. Lamb. Butterflies. 229 Aunt C. Very like boy and girl, I must say. Kate. I know a little verse about the Butterfly. Aunt C Then, pray, let us hear it, my dear. BUTTERFLIES. Butterflies are pretty things, Prettier than you or I ; See the colours on his wings,— Who would hurt a Butterfly ? Softly, softly, girls and boys ; He *11 come near us by-and-by ; Here he is, don't make a noise, — We'll not hurt you, Butterfly. Not to hurt a living thing Let all little children try ; See; again he 's on the wing ; Good-bye, pretty Butterfly ! E. FOLLEN. Aunt C. Thank you, Katie ; they are very pretty. Here are some rather more difficult verses by Samuel Rogers, of whom you will hear a great deal when you come to read memoirs of the society of the early half of this century. He was born in 1763, and died in 1855, having for many years kept a house in London, with a most choice collection of pictures and beautiful 230 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. things, and where he gave breakfasts, at which all the cleverest and wittiest people of the day met, and said clever things. He wrote a volume of poems, the most famous of which was " Pleasures of Memory." TO THE BUTTERFLY. Child of the Sun ! pursue thy rapturous flight. Mingling with her thou lov*st in fields of light ; And, where the flowers of Paradise unfold, Quaflf fragrant nectar from their cups of gold. There shall thy wings, rich as an evening sky, Expand and shut with silent ectasy I Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that crept On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and slept And such is man ; soon from his cell of clay To burst, a seraph, in the blaze of day. S. Rogers. Alice, They are pretty lines, and I like their dwelling on the Butterfly s change being like the Resurrection. Aunt C. I wish, however, that he had not said, " Burst, a seraph, in the blaze of day/' The Seraphim are amongst the highest of angels, and there is no authority for thinking we shall be changed into angels. Btitterflies. 231 Grace. Please, Aunt Charlotte, read us the verses our Grandmamma wrote when she saw the Butterfly upon a baby's grave, through the church door, during the singing. Aunt C. Sept. 15th, 1838 — forty-two years ago. While on the ear the solemn note Of prayers and praises heavenward float, A Butterfly, with brilliant wings, A lesson full of meaning brings, A sermon to the eye. There on an infant's grave it stands, Lo, it hath burst its shroud's dull bands ; Its vile worm's body there is left, Of gross earth's habits now bereft. It soars into the sky. Thus when the grave her dead shall give. The little form below shall live ; It shall put on a robe of white. And, decked in garments shining bright. To realms above shall fly. Alice. Katie looks as if we had brought her to very grave thoughts. Grace. Not sad, but glad, really ; are not they ? Aunt C. So glad, that they need not hinder us from 2^2 A nut Charlotte s Poetry Book. enjoying some playful lines written by a nameless author on the funeral of the very Butterfly who gave the ball. The drawing is made to suit them. THE BUTTERFLY'S FUNERAL. Oh ye who so lately were blithesome and gay, At the Butterfly's banquet carousing away, Your feasts and your revels of pleasure are fled. For the chief of the banquet, the Butterfly 's dead. No lon'j^er the Flics and the Emmets advance To join with their friends in the Grasshopper's dance; For see his fine form o'er the favourite bend, And the Grasshopper mourn for the loss of his friend. And hark to the funeral dirge of the Bee, And the Beetle, who follows as solemn as he ; And see, where so mournful the green rushes wave. The Mole is preparing the Butterfly's grave. The Dormouse attended, but cold and forlorn, And the Gnat slowly winded his shrill little horn, And the Muth, being grieved at the loss of a sister. Bent over her body and silently kissed her. The corpse was embalmed at the set of the sun. And enclosed in a case which the Silk-worm had spun ; By the help of the Hornet the coffin was laid On a bier out of myrtle and jessamine made. Btitterfiies. 233 In weepers and scarves came the Butterflies all, And six of their number supported the pall ; And the Spider came there in his mourning so black, But the fire of the Glow-worm soon frightened him back. The Grub left his nutshell to join the sad throng, And slowly led with him the Bookworm along. Who wept his poor neighbour's unfortunate doom. And wrote these few lines to be placed on his tomb — Epitaph. At this solemn spot, where the green rushes wave, In sadness we bend o'er the Butterfly's grave ; 'Twas here the last tribute to beauty we paid, And we wept o'er the mound where her ashes are laid. And here shall the daisy and violet blow, And the lily discover her bosom of snow ; While under this leaf, in the evenings of spring. Still mourning his friend, shall the Grasshopper sing. Alice. May we not finish with the real history of the Silk-worm, from Dr. Neale's Songs of tfie Trades? THE SILK THROWSTERS. A song for the Mulberry-tree so fair, And its leaves so fresh and gay, And a song for the worm that feasteth there In the pleasant month of May. 228 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. But talk not now of what is past. The moments fly away too fast. Though endlessly they seem to last To that poor soul in fear. Brotfur. Well, soon (I say) 1 11 let it loose ; But, sister, you talk like a goose — There 's no soul in a fly. Sister, It has a form and fibres fine, Were tempered by the Hand Divine That dwells beyond the sky. Look, brother, you have hurt its wing. And plainly by its fluttering You see it 's in distress. Gay, painted coxcomb, spangled beau, A Butterfly is called, you know, That 's always in full dress. The finest gentleman of all Insects he is, he gave a ball. You know, the poet wrote. Let 's fancy this the very same. And then you '11 own you Ve been to blame To spoil his silken coat. BrotJur, Your dancing, spangled, powdered beau, Look, through the air I Ve let him go. And now we *re friends again. And sure as he is in the air. From this time, Anne, I will take care And try to be humane. Lamb. Btitterflies. 229 Aunt C. Very like boy and girl, I must say. Kate. I know a little verse about the Butterfly. Aunt C. Then, pray, let us hear it, my dear. BUTTERFLIES. Butterflies are pretty things, Prettier than you or I ; See the colours on his wings,— Who would hurt a Butterfly ? Softly, softly, girls and boys ; He '11 come near us by-and-by ; Here he is, don't make a noise, — We '11 not hurt you. Butterfly. Not to hurt a living thing Let all little children try ; See; again he 's on the wing ; Good-bye, pretty Butterfly I E. FOLLEN. Aunt C. Thank you, Katie ; they are very pretty. Here are some rather more difficult verses by Samuel Rogers, of whom you will hear a great deal when you come to read memoirs of the society of the early half of this century. He was born in 1763, and died in 1855, having for many years kept a house in London, with a most choice collection of pictures and beautiful EVENING XVII. LITTLE THINGS. Alice. Small things are best — grief and unrest To pride and wealth are given ; But little things on little wings Bear little soub to Heaven. F. W. Faber. Aunt C. That was written in a little girl's album, and it makes a good beginning to our subject to-night Grace. I know " Little by Little." LITTLE BY LITTLE. " Little by little," an acorn said, As it slowly sank in its mossy bed, " I am improving every day. Hidden deep in the earth away." Little by little each day it grew ; Little by little it sipped the dew ; Little Things, 237 Downward it sent a thread-like root ; Up in the air sprang a tiny shoot ; Little by little the leaves appeared, Little by little the trunk upreared, And the slender branches spread far and wide, Till the mighty oak is the forest's pride. Far down in the depths of the deep blue sea, An insect train work unceasingly ; Grain by grain they are building well, Each one alone in its little cell. Moment by moment, day by day. Never stopping to rest or play. Rocks upon rocks they are rearing high. Till the top looks up to the sunny sky ; The gentle wind and the balmy air Little by little bring verdure there. Till the summer sunbeams gaily smile On the buds and flowers of the coral isle. " Little by little,'* thus said a young boy, " Moment by moment I *11 well employ ; Learning a little every day. And not spending all my time in play ; And still this rule in my mind shall dwell, Whatever I do^ I'll do it well. Little by little I *11 learn to know The treasured wisdom of long ago ; 238 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. And one of these days perhaps we 'II see That the world will be the better for me," And do you not think that this simple plan Made him a wise and useful man ? Anon. Katie. And there is one like that in my book of Moral Songs. May I read it ? Aunt C. Mrs. Alexander s ? She has been a good friend to all you young ones. THE OAK TREK Long ago, in changeful autumn, When the leaves were waxing brown, From the tall oak*s topmost branches Came a little acorn down ; And it tumbled in the pathway. And a chance foot trod it deep In the ground, where all the winter In its shell it lay asleep, With the white snow lying over. And the frost to hold it fast, Till there came the mild spring weather, When it burst its shell at last First shot up a sapling tender, Scarcely seen above the ground ; Then a mimic little oak tree Spread its tiny arms around. Little Things. 239 Many years the night dews nursed it, Summers hot and winters long ; The sweet sun looked bright upon it, While It grew up tall and strong. Now it standeth like a giant, Casting shadows broad and high ; With huge trunk and leafy branches Spreading up into the sky. There the squirrel loves to frolic. There the wild birds rest at night ; There the cattle come for shelter. In the noontide hot and bright. Child, when, haply, thou art resting 'Neath the great oak's monster shade, Think how little was the acorn Whence that mighty tree was made ; Think how simple things and lowly Have a place in Nature's plan ; How the great hath small beginnings, And the child will be a man. Little efforts work great actions ; Lessons in our childhood taught, Mould the spirit of that temper Wherein mighty deeds are wrought. 240 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. Ldhood, Use them gently, guard them veil. For their future gro-rth and greatoess Who can mcasore, who can tell ? Aunt C. Very pretty and wise indeed, and I think we must follow it up with an example taken from little things by Dr. Isaac Watts^ who lived between 1674 and 1 746, and was, I suppose, really the first writer of hymns on puipose for little children. Here is his AnL THE ANT. These emmets, how little they are in our e>"es ! We tread them to dust, and a troop of them dies. Without our regard or concern ; Yet as wise as we are, if we went to their school. There 's many a sluggard and many a fool Some lessons of wisdom might leanu They wear not their time out in sleeping or play. But gather up com on a sunshiny day. And for winter they lay up their stores ; They manage their work in such regular forms, One would think they foresaw all the frosts and the storms, And so brought their food within doors. Little Things. 241 But I have less sense than a poor creeping ant, If I take not good care of the things I shall want, Nor provide against dangers in time ; When death or old age shall stare in my face. What a wretch shall I be in the end of my days, If I trifle away all their prime. Dr. Watts. Alice. I met with some more verses the other day in Mr. Langbridge's pretty book, Gaslight and Stars^ that show how small beginnings may grow to evil or to good. It is called SNOWFLAKE AND AVALANCHE. One winter morning, bleak and cold, A seed is buried in the mould ; And now from out the heart of earth A slender emerald shoot hath birth. It sucks the sun, it drinks the dew, It ripens to the russet hue ; Then comes the reaper, blithe and fain. And gathers in the blessed grain. Then sow, my lads, ay, sow, my lads ; The gentle thought will grow, my lads ; Small at first, and little worth, Sunned by heaven, and fed by earth. Downward root, and upward shoot, Lo I it ripens into fruit I 242 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. Sow the seed, and let it li< Not a single grain shall die ; Fair and yellow, full and mellow, Waves the harvest by-and-by I Behold, on some chill Alpine height; A little snowflake soft and white, Slides downward in its silent course^ And, sliding, ever gathers force ; It gathers force, it takes a form, And now, a voice of wreck and storm. It rushes, crushes, thunders down In earthquake on the doomed town. E'en so, my lads, e'en so, my lads, The little fault will grow, my lads ; Slight at first, and soft and white, Lo ! it gathers day and night. Gathers, hardens, shapes, and grows ; Solid ice, not pliant snows. Massy, dread, beyond control. With mountain-weight and thunder-rolL Shaking, quaking, bursting, breaking. It crushes down the hapless soul. Frederick Langbridgb. Aunt C. Snowflakes are good things, too, in their right place ; but the simile is excellent We will finish, though, with a more cheerful poem, one by Little Things. 243 the American Bishop of California, Dr. Cleveland Coxe, showing how the child's love of little earthly things may go step by step to the highest and best A BALLAD. The first dear thing that ever I loved Was a mother's gentle eye, That smiled as I woke on the dreamy couch That cradled my infancy. I never forget the joyous thrill That smile in my bosom stirred, Nor how it could charm me against my will. Till I laughed like a joyous bird. And the next fair thing that ever I loved Was a bunch of summer flowers. With odours, and hues, and loveliness, Fresh as from Eden's bowers. I never can find such hues again. Nor smell such a sweet perfume ; And if there be odours as sweet as those, 'Tis I that have lost my bloom. And the next dear thing that ever I loved Was a favourite little maid. Half-pleased, half-awed by the frolic boy That tortured her doll and played. 244 j4unt Charlotte's Poetry Book. I never can see the gossamer Which rude, rough zephyrs tease. But I think how I tossed her flossy locks With my whirling bonnet's breeze. And the next good thing that ever I loved Was a bowkite in the sky, And a little boat on the brooklet's surf, And my dog for company ; And a jingling hoop, with many a bound, To my measured strike and true. And a rocket sent up to the firmament, When Even was out so blue. And the next fair thing I was fond to love Was a field of wavy grain, Where a reaper mowed, as a ship in sail. On the billowy, billowy main ; And the next was a fiery prancing horse That I felt like a man to stride ; And the next was a beautiful sailing boat. With a helm it was hard to guide. And the next dear thing I was fond to love Is tenderer far to tell — 'Twas a voice, and a hand, and a gentle eye That dazzled me with its spell ; Little Things. 245 And the loveliest things I had loved before Were only the landscape now, On the canvas bright, where I pictured her In the glow of my early vow. And the last dear thing I was fond to love Was the holy service high, That lifted my soul to joys above, And pleasures that do not die ; And I felt in my spirit drear and strange, To think of the race I ran, That I loved the sole thing that knew no change In the soul of boy or man. And then I said, " One thing there is That I of the Lord desire — That ever while I on the earth shall live, I will of the Lord require That I may dwell in His temple blest As long as my life shall be. And the beauty fair of the Lord of Hosts In the home of His glory see. Bp. Cleveland Coxb. EVENING XVIII. FAIRY LORE, Alice. Gracie is begging for some fairy verses. Aunt C, We must go to our greatest poet for them, Shakspere. Here is his description of Queen Mab — She comes In shape no bigger than an agate-stone On the fore-finger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomies Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep : Her waggon-spokes made of long-spinners' l^s ; The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers ; The traces, of the smallest spider's web ; The collars, of the moonshine's watery beams : Her whip, of cricket's bone ; the lash, of film : Her waggoner, a small grey-coated gnat Not half so big as a round little worm Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid : Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut, Fairy Lore. 247 Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub, Time out of mind the fairies' coachmakers. And in this state she gallops night by night Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love ! Alice. Why is she called Mab ? Aunt C. I believe it is from an old Celtic word, meaning mirth. There were two Queens of the Fairies in Ireland — Ain6 and Mab. Alice. The Fairy Queen is Titania in ** Midsummer Night's Dream." Aunt C. Titania is a name of Diana, and is there used because Athens is the scene, and Shakspere supposed our English fairies to act the part of the Greek nymphs of the forest and glade. We must not pass without the " Song of Titania's Fairies." Ye spotted snakes with double tongue, Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen ; Newts and blindworms, do no wrong, Come not near our Fairy Queen. Philomel, with melody Sing in our sweet lullaby, Lulla, lulla, lullaby, lulla, lulla, lullaby. Never harm nor spell nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh ; So good-night with lullaby. 248 j4unt Cliarlottes Poetry Book. Weaving spiders come not near, Hence, ye long-l^ged spinners^ hence ; Beetles black approach not near, Worms nor snails do no offence; Here are two old songs again — ^from an old collec- tion of English ballads. THE ELVES' DANCE. Dare ye haunt our hallowed green ? None but Fairies here are seen ; Down and sleep, Wake and weep. Pinch him black and pinch him blue That seeks to steal a lover true. When you come to hear us sing. Or to tread our Fairy ring, Pinch him black and pinch him blue^ Oh, thus our nails shall handle you. Alice. For meddling with the Fairy ring ? Aunt C. I suppose so. The urchins — another name for elves — are more good-natured. THE URCHINS' SONG. By the moon we sport and play, With the night begins our day. As we frisk, the dew doth fall, Trip it, little urchins all ; Fairy Lore. 249 Lightly as the little bee, Two by two, and three by three, And about go we, go we. Grace. Oh, how pretty ! Aunt C. Here is another Fairies' song, written, I believe, for one of the masques that were the fashion under Elizabeth and James. A FAIRY'S SONG. Come, follow, follow me. Ye Fairy elves that be ; Light tripping on the green, Come follow Mab, your Queen ; Hand-in-hand we'll dance around. For this place is Fairy ground. When mortals are at rest. And snoring in their nest, Unheard and unespied, Through keyholes we do glide, Over tables, stools, and shelves, Wc trip it with our Fairy elves. And if the house is swept. And from uncleanness kept, We praise the household maid, And duly she is paid ; Every night before we go We drop a tester in her shoe. Then o'er a mushroom's head Our table-cloth we spread ; A grain of rye or wheat. The diet that we eat ; Pearly drops of dew we drink In acorn cups filled to the brink. The brains of nightingales, With unctuous fat of snails. Between two cockles stewed. Is meat that 's eas'ly chewed ; Tails of worms and marrow of mice Do make a dish that *s wondrous nice. The grasshopper, g^at, and fly Serve for our minstrelsy ; Grace said, we dance awhile, And thus the time beguile ; And if the moon doth hide her head, The Glow-worm lights us home to bed. O'er tops of dewy grass So nimbly do we pass, The young and tender stalk Ne'er bends where we do walk ; Yet in the morning may be seen Where we the night before have been. Alice. Unctuous fat of snails! Pah! I don't admire the Fairies' taste ! Fairy Lore. 251 Katie. And brains of nightingales are worse. Alice. How much is a tester worth ? Aunt C. It was a coin in value between sixpence and ninepence. Alice. Diligent maids must have grown rich if the Fairies came every night But, Aunt, I am sure you have another Fairy poem, in a large book, by another poet of Queen Elizabeth's time. Aunt C. Michael Drayton's "Nymphidia." The whole will not suit you ; but since you belong to those whom the poet thus describes — Another sort there be that will Be talking of the Fairies still, Nor never can they have their fill, As they are wedded to them ; No tales of them their thirst can slake. So much delight therein they take. And some strange thing they fain would make. Knew they the way to do them — I will read you some extracts. First, here is the description of the Fairy palace : — This palace standeth in the air, By necromancy placed there ; That it no tempests needs to fear, Which way soe'er it blow it 252 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. And somewhat southward tow'rd the noon. Whence lies a way up to the moon. And thence the Fairy can as soon Pass to the earth below it The walls of spiders' legs are made Well morticed and finely laid ; He was the master of his trade. It curiously that builded. The windows of the eyes of cats, And for the roof, instead of slats, Is covered with the skins of bats, With moonshine that are gilded. Hence Oberon, him sport to make (These rest when weary mortals bake. And none but only Fairies wake), Descendeth for his pleasure. And Mab, his merry queen, by night Bestrides young folk that lie upright (In olden times the mare what hight), Which plagues them out of measure. Alice. He means that Queen Mab gives the night- mare. Katie. And Oberon is King of the Fairies. Aunt C. Yes; though you might not guess it, his name has come from our old English ancestors. First Fairy Lore. 253 it was Elfrik, Elf-king, then Elberick, Auberon, Oberon. Thus he has been known ever since our forefathers came into the west, though it is only here in England that he is married to the Celtic Mab. Hence shadows, seeming idle shapes Of little frisking elves or apes, To earth do make their wanton scapes, As hope of pastime hastes them. Which maids think on the hearth they see, When fires well near consumed be. There dancing heyes by two and three, Just as their fancy casts them. These make our girls their sluttry rue, By pinching them both black and blue. And put a penny in their shoe, The house for cleanly keeping. And so their courses make that round In meadows and in marshes found. Of man so called the Fairy ground, Of which they have the keeping. Alice. Only a penny ! They are not so liberal as in the song. Aunt C I will not read the description of Mab's chariot, as Shakspere has given it to us already ; but this is the way in which her ladies hurried after her : — 254 ^unt Charlotte's Poetry Book. Hop and Mop and Drap so clear, Pip and Trip and Skip that were To Mab, their sovereign dear. The special maids of honour. Fib and Tib stnd Pinck and Pirn, Tick and Quick and Jill and Jim, Tip and Nip and Wap and Win, The train that wait upon her. Upon a grasshopper they got, And what with amble and with trot, For hedge nor ditch they spared not. But after her they hie them. A cobweb over them they throw, To shield the wind if it should blow, Themselves they wisely could bestow, Lest any should espy them. Grace. What odd little names ! Aunt C. Showing that they came from homely English fancies. Now you shall hear of the armour of a Fairy knight, called Pigwiggin, who had a great quarrel with Oberon. He quickly armed him for the field, A little cockle-shell his shield, Which he could very bravely wield, Yet could it not be pierc^ Fairy Lore. 255 His spear, a bent both stiff and strong, And well near of two inches long ; The pile* was of a horsefly's tongue, Whose sharpness nought reversed. And puts him on a coat of mail. Which was of a fish's scale, That when his foe should him assail, No point should be prevailing. His rapier was a hornet's sting ; It was a veiy dangerous thing. For if it chanced to hurt the king, It would be long in healing. His helmet was a beetle's head. Most horrible and full of dread. That able was to strike one dead ; Yet it did well become him. And for a plume a horse's hair, Which, being tossed by the air, Had force to strike his foe with fear, And turn his weapon from hioL Himself he on an earwig set, Yet scarce upon his back could get, So oft and high he did curvet. Ere he himself could settle. * Point, LAt. pilum, a dart. [ 256 ^unt Charlotte's Poetry Book. He made him turn and stop and bound. To gallop and to trot the round ; He scarce could stand on any ground, He was so full of mettle. Drayton. Katie. Was there a fight ? Aunt C. Yes, but it is not very interesting, and the warriors were parted by a cloud of smoke. Grace. Oh I I wish you would read us more. Aunt C. You must read for yourself some day of Titania's Fairies, Cobweb Moth, Mustard Seed, and Pease Blossom in Midsummer Night's Dream; and, above all, of Puck, or Robin Goodfellow, the mis- chievous fellow who says — '' I '11 follow them, I '11 lead them round about, Through bog, through brook, through brake, through mire ; Sometimes a horse I '11 be, sometimes a hound, A hog, a headless bear, sometimes a fire ; And neigh, and bark, and grunt, and roar, and bum. Like horse, hound, hog, bear, fire at every turn. Grace. I am so sorry there are no more Fairies. Aunt C. So was a learned Bishop. Grace. A Bishop I Aunt C. Yes ; Dr. Corbet, Bishop of Norwich in the time of King James I. He wrote a ballad called Fairy Lore. 257 THE FAIRIES' FAREWELL. Farewell, rewards and Fairies, Good housewives now may say, For now foul sluts in dairies Do fare as well as they. And though they sweep their hearths no less Than maids were wont to do. Yet who of late for cleanliness Finds sixpence in her shoe ? At morning and at evening both Ye merry were and glad, So little care of sleep or sloth These merry ladies had. When Tom came home from labour^ Or Cis to milking goes, How merrily went the tabor, . How merrily went their toes. Witness those rings and roundelays Of theirs which yet remain Were footed in Queen Mary's days On many a grassy plain. But since of late Elizabeth, And, later, James came in. They never danced on any heath As when the time had been. R 258 Aunt Charlottes Poetry Book. A tell-tale in their company They never could endure. And whoso kept not secretly Their pranks was punished sure. It was a just and Christian deed To pinch such black and blue ; Oh, how the commonwealth doth need Such justices as you ! Bishop Corbet. A/ue. Well done, Bishop I Grace. They all tell of fairy rings, and I have really seen fairy rings on the down. Auni C. So have we all ; but alas, they are only circles where mushrooms grow, looking, I allow, like fairy tables. Grace. And it would be of no use to go to sleep in one, if nurse would let me ? Aunt C. Alas ! no ; but here is a charming poem, telling how near we can still get to Fairyland. OBERON'S HORN. On the way to a school that stood By the side of a murmuring stream. There sat alone in a wintry wood A child in a waking dream. _J Fairy Lore. 259 The mire was under the snow, The rock was under the mire ; A lesson he did not know, Of which he began to tire, Fluttering open lay on his knee. The wearisome, troublesome verb " To be." From the top of the upright pine The snow lump falls with a thud, Coming from where the sunbeams shine To lie in the heart of the mud. The child knows grammar as grief; The wind wails over the land ; It stirs in his thumb-worn leaf With a cold dry skeleton hand. Where in the winter is music born ? What does the child hear ? — Oberon's Horn. The pulse of the Fairy strain Throbs in the pulse of the child ; " Oh, well is me that I hear thee again, Oberon undefiled !" Well is it for all who can share The pulse of the Fairy strain ; Content is the burden of care, And pleasure the flower of pain. Nothing is barren, and none forlorn. Within sound of the music of Oberon's Horn. 26o ^uni Charlotte s Poetry Book. The skeleton touch of the wind Grows soft as the warm caress Of a sleeping mother whose fingers find Their way to a nursling's tress. The wood, too, replies with a smile ; Lilies are here for snow, And birds in the blossoming aisle Are choir to the flowers below. But the verb has leapt from the leaf thumb-worn. To dance to the music of Oberon's Horn. Odd stories " To be" can tell When Oberon winds his horn ; The verb we all conjugate ill or well, For whose tenses and mood we were bom. Of the little we learn by rote, Little we fairly know, If we hear not the Fairy note When Oberon's horn shall blow, Melting the rusty fetters of wit. Quickening life and the sense of it Three notes — Fair, Kind, and True — Are all the Fairy plays ; Three colours alone are in every hue Of the many-tinted days. Fairy Lore. 261 But what is a child to care For earnest under its jest ? And how is a man to share The toy that a man likes best ? Tickle with straws that are empty of corn, Let the music ring hollow from Oberon's Horn ? I know that it does in France, And for us there is rare delight In a wit that on nothing can tumble and dance, And dazzle without giving light. But English wit rings best, With an earnest undertone ; 'Tis when reason lies under the jest That an Englishman's laugh is his own. We wish to hear nothing, but, English born, We hear with our hearts even Oberon's Horn. By a child of the age of a man. Whom Fairies had always in thrall. These stories are told you without any plan But a wish to mean nothing at all. Yet fancy must play over truth, Let us labour out life as we may ; And we all, man, woman, and youth, In England mean more than we say. Then why should the North go the way of the South, Or a French tongue speak with an English mouth ? 262 Amit Charlotte's Poetry Book. Through the busy English land These notes of the Fairy Horn Sound for the boy who can understand That in him a man was bom ; For the woman and girl who can feed On other talk than wooing, Where thought belongs to deed, And life consists in doing ; For the wholesome man that can play with a child. And for all honest fancy that dares run wild. Pl^OFESSOR MORLEY. Katie. I have seen a Fairy. Alice, Oh ! in a pantomime. Katie. They were — oh, so delicious ! Grace. If I could but see one ! Alice. I had rather noL I would rather think pf a Fairy as a thing of fancy in the woods and fields. Aunt C. I do not know whether it will disenchant Katie to hear this perfectly true story of a modern Fairy. THE CHILD WHO WOULD NOT BE A FAIRY. Another story wanted, children ? Well, It seems to me, somehow, the more we tell, The more you come and ask us for. This time I *11 try if I can turn you into rhyme A tale I heard myself not long ago. Fairy Lore. 263 Last winter, in the time of frost and snow, Once in the hospital, by chance, I espied A widow, all in black and tearful-eyed. Close sitting by a bed wherein was laid Her poor sick sister. All the while she stayed She held the poor thin hand, and now and then Kissed it and stroked it. When I looked again, I noticed what I had not seen at first (There were so many others to be nursed), Beside the bed a little girl of five ; They called her Lucy. How one could contrive To keep her still a moment, I can't guess. Her fingers twitched her mother's mournful dress ; Her feet seemed made to dance ; her quick bright eyes Glanced all about the room (how great its size I) — The beds in long white lines, the fireplace tall, The glistening tin utensils on the wall, The nurse who to and fro so softly went, And now and then beside a pillow bent. And whispered words of comfort, soothing, kind — All this the child recorded in her mind. I questioned with the mother, and I found Her story out. Her husband had been drowned Three years ago ; since then, " Hard times," she said, " Have scarce given work enough for daily bread. My sister and three children live with me ; And she is ill and helpless, as you see ; 264 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. But then by great good luck this Christmas-time^ They want some dancers for the Pantomime ; And little Lucy there — ^>'Ou never saw A child can dance like her! She's like a straw Or feather in the wind ; her little foot Springs like a Fairy's. In that muddy boot You can't half see it, ma'am ; but then at night. When all the play-house lamps are burning bright. And she 's dressed up in satin and in gauze, Myself I scarcely know her. Such applause Runs through the house whenever she appears ; And (here she sobbed, and scarce could speak for tears) I saw her there one night, and while the rest Clapped hands and laughed, and said she was the best Of all the Fairies on the stage, I said, * Thank God, this year we shall not want for bread/ " " But that must make her vain." She answered " No. If she were older, ma'am, it might be so ; So tiny and so young, they never guess But 'tis for their amusement all the dress, Dancing, and music too. The play *s a play. Though grown-up people come or stop away." Then up she rose. " Come, Lucy, we must go ; Make your best curtsey to the lady — so. Sister, good-night Next week I come again, I hope to find you better, poor dear Jane. See, ma'am, how thin her hand is. But my time Is up — at seven comes on the Pantomime." Fairy Lore. 265 About a week went by. One holiday I took my little nieces to the play. We wrapped them up in shawls (their frocks were thin), And called a cab, and packed them safely in. Perhaps you Ve seen a pantomime. If not, Fancy a place all lighted up and hot, And crowded full of people turned one way. And others dressed up — some like fairies gay, And some like giants, witches, sailors, kings, Going and coming, saying funny things. Dancing or laughing, singing, by-and-by Pretending (for 'tis all pretence) to cry. And in a moment light is turned to dark, A cottage to a palace or a park ; The moon begins to shine, the waves to roar, And every change seems stranger than before. I said to little Clara at my right (My youngest niece), " Now look with all your might. You '11 see a great black bottle soon appear. Corked tightly up. And by-and-by, my dear. Whizz ! off the cork will fly, and from inside A little tiny fairy girl will glide. With blue gauze winglets, and a golden crown. And dance before you with that red-cheek'd clown." I said so, for I 'd heard the other day This was the part that Lucy used to play. And all the little girls, with all their eyes. Watched for the bottle and the great surprise. 266 Aunt Charlottes Poetry Book. But time went on, and many a wondrous sight We saw, and many a fairy tripping light ; But Lucy ne'er appeared. Who was to blame ? The bottle and the fairy never came. And when 'twas time to go, the children said, " Twas very pretty, Aunt " — ^then shook the head ; And Clara sighed, while pinning up her shawl^ " We never saw that fairy, though, at all 1" But home they went, and straight to bed ; perchance In dreams they still beheld the fairies dance. Next morning came. The foggy streets were damp. And London all alight with torch and lamp ; And coughing women, cloaked and veiled, whose feet Slipped in the mire, went shivering down the street ; And cabmen shook their dripping overcoats, And wound their comforters around their throats — The only cheerful sight the steaming tins Of hot potatoes roasted in their skins. " That poor sick Jane in hospital," I said ; " I wonder how she is ? 'Tis dark overhead. But I must see her." So that afternoon (The sun above me like a copper moon) I went and found her out Beside her bed The widowed sister sat — her eyes were red ; And when I talked a while to Sister Jane, And heard her tale of sleepless nights and pain, I turned to licr^ and asked if all was well. " And how's your little Lucy ?" Then she fell Fairy Lore. 267 To weeping sorely. " Oh, that child," she cried, " Has brought sad trouble on me, though I tried To teach her better. *Twas three nights ago My sister here was worse. They let me know. And I was forced to come. I stayed with her. And sent the children to the Theatre Without me. Every night I used to dress My little Lucy like a gay princess. Put on her satin shoes, her gauzy wings And fleshings, and a score of other things. That night I said, ' Now, Lucy, mind you stay With this kind lady ' (for my friend. Miss Gray, One of the other actors in the play, Had come to fetch her) ; * and be sure that you Give her no trouble. What she bids you, do ; She '11 help you just like me, and dress you right, And says she '11 bring you safely home at night Good-bye ; now don't forget.' So off they went. And Lucy seemed quite cheerful and content. But, ma'am, would you believe it } When the time Was come to dress her for the Pantomime, That kind Miss Gray good-naturedly begins To try and help her — brings a box of pins, Scissors, and tarletan, ribbons, and the rest, And says, * Come hither, Lucy, and be drest ; To-night I *11 help you, for your mother can't, Because she *s gone to nurse your poor sick aunt' 'Twas kindly meant, 'twas very kind of her. But that provoking Lucy would not stir, 268 Attnt Charlotte s Poetry Book. Stood pouting by the doorway — if thqr tried To touch her dress or shoes, she only cried. Then came the carpenter (they call him Dick) \ * Come, little lass/ says he, ' unless you're quick, 'Twill all go wrong together. Won't she move ? Come, let the lady dress you, there *s a love.' But still she stood as stiffly as before, And hid her little face behind the door. Then our head lady came in such a rage — " What can that child be at ? Behind the sta^e They're calling out for her. You idle thing ! If you were mine, I 'd whip you. Let them bring Her up directly. What a shame is this V One tries the scolding plan, and one the kiss ; But Lucy will not move — she still rebels — * Mother may d'css me ; mother — no one else.' And so the play went on without her. She Came home at night in sad disgrace to me. Next morning " (here the tears again flowed faster) " I went, as I was sent for, to the master. And found him sitting there in such a rage ; He said, instead of paying me her wage (That which I counted on, and reckoned mine), That he should claim of me a heavy fine * For Lucy's misdemeanour. Ah ! he spoke So harshly that I felt my heart was broke. Fairy Lore. 269 How can I get the money ? Day by day I seem to grow still poorer. Rent to pay, Food, clothes, and fire, and now this heavy fine, And all because this little girl of mine Was wilful, disobedient, uncontrolled. Rebelled, and would not do as she was told." And now, dear children, here my story ends, But not the moral. You, perhaps, have friends Who tell you of your duty, and, what 's more. Would help you do it Think what sorrow sore Some trifling act of disobedience brings ! For right and wrong oft lie in little things. And what j'^i^ think is nothing, oft may prove No little matter to the friends you love. Remember Lucy, though so young, could do Both harm and good ; and so, much more, can you. Take warning from the child of five years old. And, first and last, still do as you are told. Veritas. EVENING XIX. SNAKES AND CROCODILES. Alice. I have brought a curious true story of a Snake, put in verse by Charles Lamb. THE BOY AND THE SNAKE. Henry was every morning fed With a full mess of milk and bread. One day the boy his breakfast took, And ate it by a purling brook, Which through his mother's orchard ran* From that time ever, when he can Escape his mother's eye, he there Takes his food in the open air. Finding the child delight to eat Abroad, and make the grass his seat, His mother lets him have his way. With free leave, Henry every day Thither repairs, until she heard Him talking of a fine grey bird. Snakes and Crocodiles. 271 This pretty bird he said, indeed, Came every day with him to feed, And it loved him and loved his milk, And it was smooth and soft like silk. His mother thought she 'd go and see What sort of bird this same might be ; So the next morn she follows Harry, And carefully she sees him carry Through the long grass his heaped-up mess. What was her terror and distress. When she saw the infant take His bread and milk close to a snake ! Upon the grass he spread his feast. And sits down by his frightful guest. Who had waited for the treat ; And now they both begin to eat. Fond mother ! shriek not, O beware The least small noise, O have a care — The least small noise that may be made The wily snake will be afraid — If he hear the lightest sound. He will inflict the envenomed wound. She speaks not, moves not, scarce does breathe. As she stands the trees beneath ; No sound she utters ; and she soon Sees the child lift up its spoon And tap the snake upon the head. Fearless of harm ; and then he said. 272 ^unt Charlotte* s Poetry Book. As speaking to familiar mate, " Keep on your own side, do, Grey Pate" The snake then to the other side. As one rebuke, seems to glide ; And now, again advancing nigh. Again she hears the infant cry, Tapping the snake, " Keep further, do ; Mind, Grey Pate, what I say to you." The danger 's o'er — she sees the boy (Oh, what a change from fear to joy I) Rise and bid the snake * good-bye ;" Says he ; " Our breakfast 's done, and I Will come again to-morrow day ;" Then, lightly tripping, ran away. Charles LxMa Edmund. Of course it was a harmless snake f Aunt C. I should suppose so. And I confess that Charles Lamb does not shine in poetry, though it is a curious story, worth preserving. Here is another, more fatal to the Snake, by our old friend, Cowper. THE COLUBRIAD. Close by the threshold of a door nailed fast, Three kittens sat ; each kitten looked aghast ; I, passing swift and inattentive by. At the three kittens cast a careless eye. Not much concerned to know what they did there. Not deeming kittens worth a poet's care. Snakes and Crocodiles. 273 But presently a loud and furious hiss Caused me to stop, and to exclaim, "What's this?" When lo ! upon the threshold met my view, With head erect, and eyes of fiery hue, A viper, long as Count de Grasse's queue. Forth from his head his forked tongue he throws. Darting it full against a kitten's nose, Who, never having seen in field or house The like, sat still and silent as a mouse ; Only, projecting with attention due Her whiskered face, she asked him, " Who are you ?" On to the hall went I with pace not slow. But swift as lightning, for a long Dutch hoe, With which, well armed, I hastened to the spot To find the viper, — but I found him not ; And turning up the leaves and shrubs around, Found only that he was not to be found. ** I hope," said I, " the villain I would kill Has slipped between the door and the door-sill, And if I make despatch and follow hard, No doubt but I shall find him in the yard." For long ere now it should have been rehearsed, 'Twas in the garden that I found him first. Even there I found him, there the full-grown cat His head, with velvet paw did gently pat, As curious as the kittens erst had been To learn what this phenomenon might mean. Filled with heroic ardour at the sight. And fearing every moment he would bite, s 274 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. And rob our household of our only cat That was of age to combat with a rat, With outstretched hoe I slew him at the door. And taught him NEVER to come there no more. COWPfiR« Grace. Why does he call It by such an odd name ? Aunt C. Edmund will tell you that coluber means a Snake. It is what is called a mock-heroic poem, telling about a trifle in a very grand style; so it is called the Colubriad^ because it is about a Snake — just as the i^neid was about i^neas. Edmund. And what was Count de Grasse's queue ? Aunt C. Count de Grasse was a French admiral, who was beaten and made prisoner in the West Indies by Lord Rodney, in 1782; but I am afraid I cannot tell you how long his queue, or pigtail, was. Alice. Do you think the Snake really could have been a viper ? Aunt C. I cannot tell ; but I believe that cats can play with venomous snakes without being bitten. I suppose their fur is too close for the fangs to penetrate. A friend of mine in Natal saw her white kitten play- ing with a wicked-looking little green snake without receiving any damage. Snakes and Crocodiles. 275 Edmund. Have you any more about Snakes ? Aunt C. I am afraid not ; but I will read you instead a comical poem which Southey wrote, on reading in a book of travels that the Egyptian peasants believe that far down the Nile there lives a King of the Crocodiles, with ears, but without a tail, and quite harmless. THE KING OF THE CROCODILES. Part I. " Now, woman, why without your veil, And wherefore do you look so pale ? And, woman, why do you groan so sadly. And wherefore beat your bosom madly ?" *' Oh ! I have lost my darling boy In whom my soul had all its joy ; And I for sorrow have torn my veil. And sorrow hath made my very heart pale. " Oh ! I have lost my darling child. And that 's the loss that makes me wild ; He stooped to the river down to drink, And there was a Crocodile at the brink. " He did not venture in to swim. He only stooped to drink at the brim ; But under the reeds the Crocodile lay. And struck with his tail and swept him away. 276 AiDit Charlotte s Poetry Book. " Now take me in your boat, I pray. For down the river lies my way ; And me to the Reed-Island bring. For I will go to the Crocodile King. '' He reigns not now in Crocodilople, Proud as the Turk in Constantinople ; No ruins of his great city remain, The Island of Reeds is his whole domain. ^ Like a Dervise, there he passes his days, Turns up his eyes, and fasts and prays ; And, being g^own pious and meek and mild. He now never eats man, woman, or child. " The King of the Crocodiles never does wrong. He has no tail so stiff and strong ; He has no tail to strike and slay, But he has ears to hear what I say. ''And to the King I will complain How my poor child was wickedly slain ; The King of the Crocodiles he is good. And I shall have the murderer's blood." The man replied, " No, woman, no, To the Island of Reeds I will not go ; I would not for any worldly thing See the face of the Crocodile King." Snakes and Crocodiles. 277 " Then lend me now your little boat, And I will down the river float I tell thee that no worldly thing Shall keep me from the Crocodile King, " The King of the Crocodiles he is good, And therefore will give me blood for blood ; Being so mighty and so just. He can revenge me, he will, and he must" The woman she leapt into the boat, And down the river alone did she float, And fast with the stream the boat proceeds. And now she is come to the Island of Reeds. The King of the Crocodiles there was seen ; He sat upon the eggs of the Queen, And all around, a numerous rout. The young Prince Crocodiles crawled about The woman shook every limb with fear. As she to the Crocodile King came near ; For never man without fear and awe The face of his Crocodile majesty saw. She fell upon her bended knee. And said, " O King, have pity on me, For I have lost my darling child, And that 's the loss that makes me wild. 278 Aunt Ctiarlotte's Poetry Book. ^ A Crocodile ate him for his food. Now let me have the murderer's blood- Let me have vengeance for my boy. The only thing that can give me joy. ** I know that you. Sire I never do wrongs You have no tail so stiff and strong — You have no tail to strike and slay, But you have ears to hear what I say.* ** You have done well," the King replies, And fixed on her his little eyes ; " Good woman, yes, you have done right. But you have not described me quite. " I have no tail to strike and slay, And I have ears to hear what you say ; I have teeth, moreover, as you may see. And I will make a meal of thee I" Part II, Wicked the word and bootless the boast, As cruel King Crocodile found to his cost ; And, proper reward of tyrannical might, He showed his teeth, but he missed his bite. " A meal of me I" the woman cried. Taking wit in her anger and courage beside ; She took him his fore-legs and hind between, And trundled him off the eggs of the Queen, Snakes and Crocodiles. 279 To revenge herself then she did not fail, He was slow in his motions for want of a tail ; But well for the woman was it the while, That the Queen was gadding abroad in the Nile. Two Crocodile Princes, as they played on the sand, She caught, and, grasping them one in each hand. Thrust the head of the one into the throat of the other. And made each Prince Crocodile choke his brother. And when she had trussed three couple this way. She carried them off and hastened away ; And plying her oars with might and main, Crossed the river and got to the shore again. When the Crocodile Queen came home, she found That her eggs were broken and scattered around. And that six young Princes, darlings all, Were missing, for none of them answered her call Then many a not very pleasant thing Passed between her and the Crocodile King ; " Is this your care of the nest ?" cried she ; " It comes of your gadding abroad," said he. The Queen had the better in this dispute, And the Crocodile King found it best to be mute. While a terrible peal in his ears she rung. For the Queen had a tail as well as a tongue. 28o ^unt Charlotte's Poetry Book. In woful patience he let her rail, Standing less in fear of her tongue than her tail. And knowing that all the words which were spok^ Could not mend one of the ^gs that were broken. The woman, meantime, was very well pleased. She had saved her life, and her heart was eased ; The justice she asked in vain for her son She had taken herself, and six for one. " Mash-Allah 1" her neighbours exclaimed in delight; She gave them a funeral supper that night. Where they all agreed that revenge was sweet, And young Prince Crocodiles delicate meat SOUTHBf. EVENING XX. THE SPIDER. Alice. You are really going to bring out the drawing of the Spider ! Grace. Horrid creature ! I know what I have to say to it Aunt C. Oh yes, I know that Mary Howitt has armed you with plenty of abuse of the poor Spider, but I have something to say for her. Don't you like to see her beautiful regular nets gemmed all over with pearls and diamonds on a frosty morning ? Grace. They are very pretty, but then one knows what they are for. Edmund. And yet I have seen Miss Grace go out fishing I Grace. Oh, but I never caught anything. J. 282 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. Edmund. No, and you screamed if you did but- think you felt a bite I But when you eat beef and mutton, ma'am, you Ve no right to abuse Spiders. Grace. Nobody can bear them in the house. Aunt C. No, but the untidiness of the cobwebs of the house Spider is a more sensible reason for that than any dislike to the wonderful creature itself. I am going to read you its defence, by the Rev. Thomas Whytehead, a young clergyman who went out with Bishop Selwyn as one of the first missionaries to New Zealand, and died there of decline soon after his arrival. TO THE SPIDER. Patient creature, sitting there, Fisher of the deep-blue air. With thy web of filmy twine Stretched upon my cottage vine. Sure a quiet heart is thine. I have watched thee there this hour. In thy secret leafy bower ; All the while, a single fly Has not flown thy meshes by. They are empty, night is nigh. The Spider. 283 Yet, thou lonesome thing, for thee Few have thought or sympathy. Where, thy scanty food to get, Thou that weary watch dost set By thy solitary net Thou, as God has given thee skill, Dost thy humble task fulfil ; Busy at thy lines outspread, Mending up each broken thread, Thus thy little life is led. Yet, belike, some idler's hand, Who Nature cannot understand. As in pity for thy prey. All thy toil for many a day At one stroke will sweep away. Shame upon the delicate sense That at thee would take offence I Thus, some passing qualm to smother. Oft will man thus treat his brother. Wronging one to right another. Oh, how selfish and unsound, Such sensibility is found ; Few there are of them, I trow. Who such tender hearts avow, Half as innocent as thou. Rev. T. Whvtehkad. 284 ^unt Charlotte's Poetry Book. Alice. Grace is puzzled. Grace. Does he mean that one ought not to knock down a cobweb ? Aunt C. He does not enter on the housemaid's side of the question. All he means to say is that it is false humanity to knock down a Spider's web out of pity for the flies. Edmund. It would be like throwing away lobster- pots in pity to the lobsters. Grace. Fairies and good children always do let out the flies. Aunt C. Fairies may perhaps succeed ; but when children do, it seldom turns out well for the flies. They are so entangled in the delicate cordage, and often so poisoned by the Spider, that they die very soon, and it is probably more merciful to let them hang undisturbed than meddle with our clumsy fingers. Besides, as Mr. Whytehead says, we have no right to do so. God ordained this as the means by which the Spider should win his food, and it is not a bit more treacherous than any other kind of snare or trap. Alice. Why should we talk, then, of animals as having characters } The Spider. 285 Aunt C. Because some of their instincts are so developed as to make them a kind of living emblem of certain vices and virtues ; and the Spider s snares are always accepted as a pattern of temptation. Edmund. Ah ! Grace is burning to say her dear old SPIDER AND FLY. "Will you walk into my parlour ?" Said the Spider to the Fly ; * *Tis the prettiest little parlour That ever you did spy. The way into my parlour Is up a winding stair, And I Ve many pretty things To show you when you 're there.* « Oh no, no," said the little Fly, " To ask me is in vain, For who goes up your winding stair Will ne'er come down again." " I 'm sure you must be weary With soaring up so high ; Will you rest upon my little bed ?** Said the Spider to the Fly ; " There are pretty curtains drawn around, The sheets are fine and thin. And if you like to rest awhile, I '11 snugly tuck you in." 286 Aunt Charlotte s Poetry Book. " Oh no, no," said the little Fly, " For I Ve often heard it said They never, never wake again Who rest upon your bed." Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, " Dear friend, what can I do To prove the warm affection That I 've always felt for you ? I have within my pantry Good store of all that 's nice ; I 'm sure you *re very welcome — Will you please to take a slice ?** " Oh no, no," said the little Fly, " Kind sir, that cannot be ; I Ve heard what's in your pantry, And I do not wish to see." " Sweet creature," said the Spider, " You 're witty and you 're wise ; How handsome are your gauzy wings, How brilliant are your eyes. I have a little looking-glass Upon my parlour shelf; If you look in one moment, dear, You will behold yourself." " I thank you, gentle sir," she said, " For what you 're pleased to say. And, wishing you good-morning now, I '11 call another day." v^ The Spider. 287 The Spider turned him round about, And went into his den. For well he knew the silly Fly Would soon come back again. So he wove a subtle web In a little corner sly, And set his table ready To dine upon the Fly. Then he went out to his door again, And merrily did sing, * Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, With the pearl and silver wing ; Your robes are green and purple. There *s a crest upon your head. Your ^yt:^ are like the diamond bright, But mine are dull as lead." Alas ! alas ! how very soon This silly little Fly, Hearing his wily flattering words, Came gaily flitting by ; With buzzing wings she hung aloft, Then near and nearer drew. Thinking only of her brilliant eyes And green and purple hue — Thinking only of her crested head, Poor foolish thing I At last Up jumped the cruel Spider, And tightly held her fast. 288 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. He dragged her up the winding stair, Into his dismal den. Within his little parlour, but She ne'er came out again. And now, dear little children, Who may this stoiy read, To idle, foolish, flattering words, I pray you ne'er give heed ; Unto an evil counsellor Close heart and ear and eye^ And take a lesson from the tale Of the Spider and the Fly. BfART Hownr. Aunt C. Yes, it is a capital parable against flattery and temptation. Edmund. Here is grim old Web-spinner. Don't let me forget him. THE TRUE STORY OF WEBSPINNER. Web-Spinner was a miser old, Who came of low d^^ree ; His body was large, his \eg& were thin, And he kept bad company ; And his visage had the evil look Of a black felon grim ; To all the country he was known. But none spoke well of him. The Spider. 289 His house was seven stories high, In a corner of the street^ And it always had a dirty look. When other homes were neat ; Up in his garret dark he lived, And from the windows high, Looked out in the dusky evening Upon the passers by. Most people thought he lived alone, Yet many have averred That dismal cries from out his house Were often loudly heard ; And that none living left his gate, Although a few went in ; For he seized the very beggar old. And stripped him to the skin. And though he prayed for mercy, Yet mercy ne'er was shown — The miser cut his body up, And picked him bone from bone. Thus people said, and all believed The dismal story true ; As it was told to me, in truth, I tell it so to you. 290 Auni Charlottes Poetry Book. There was an ancient widow — One Hadgy de la Moth, A stranger to the man, or she Had ne'er gone there in troth : But she was poor, and wandered out At night-fall in the street. To b^ from rich men's taUes Dry scraps of broken meat. So she knocked at old Web-Spinner's door. With a modest tap, and low. And down stairs came he speedily Like an arrow from a bow. *' Walk in, walk in, mother,*' said he. And shut the door behind — She thought, for such a gentleman. That he was wondrous kind. But ere the midnight clock had tolled. Like a tiger of the wood, He had eaten the flesh from off her bones. And drunk of her heart's blood 1 Now after this fell deed was done, A little season's space, The burly Baron of Bluebottle Was riding from the chase. TJte Spider. 291 The sport was dull, the day was hot, The sun was sinking down. When wearily the Baron rode Into the dusty town. Says he, " I '11 ask a lodging, At the first house I come to ;" With that, the gate of Web-Spinner Came suddenly in view. Loud was the knock the Baron gave — Down came the churl with glee ; Says Bluebottle, *' Good Sir, to-night I ask your courtesy ; I am wearied with a long day's chase — My friends are far behind." " You may need them all," said Web-Spinner, " It runneth in my mind." ''A Baron am I," said Bluebottle ; " From a foreign land I come." " I thought as much,** said Web-Spinner, " Fools never stay at home ! " Says the Baron, " Churl, what meaneth this ? I defy you, villain base !" And he wished the while, in his inmost heart, He was safely from the place. 292 yiunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. Web-Spinner ran and locked the door. And a loud laugh laughed he, With that» each one on the other spimng, And they wrestled furiously. The Baron was a man of might, A swordsman of renown ; But the Miser had the stronger arm. And kept the Baron do?m. Then out he took a little cord, From a pocket at his side, And with many a crafty, cruel knot; His hands and feet he tied ; And bound him down unto the floor. And said, in savage jest, ** There is heavy work for you in store ; — So, Baron, take your rest I" Then up and down his house he went, Arranging dish and platter. With a dull and heavy countenance, As if nothing were the matter. At length he seized on Bluebottle, That strong and burly man, And with many and many a desperate tug, To hoist him up began. The Spider. 293 And step by step, and step by step, He went with heavy tread ; But ere he reached the garret door. Poor Bluebottle was dead 1 Now all this while, a magistrate, Who lived in a house hard by. Had watched Web-Spinner's cruelty Through a window privily : So in he bursts, through bolts and bars, With a loud and thundering sound. And vowed to bum the house with fire, And level it with the ground ; But the wicked churl, who all his life Had looked for such a day, Passed through a trap-door in the wall, And took himself away. But where he went, no man could tell ; 'Twas said that under ground He died a miserable death — But his body ne'er was found. They pulled his house down, stick and stone, " For a caitiff vile as he," Said they, " within our quiet town Shall not a dweller be !" Mary Howitt. 294 yiunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. Aunt C I am going to say something more for my friend the Spider — for one who, I believe, never spins webs, but only throws bridges — ^suspension — across for himself wherever he goes. THE GOSSAMER SPIDER. Creature no bigger than a pin, Most wonderful of all that spin. An acrobatic fairy. Nay, what rope dancer from himself Can draw his lines, like this small elf, Marking his progress airy. O'er breezy downs, from bent to bent, That slender, viewless pathway went. Traced in some moment's shimmer ; But far too fine for common sight Until the sunset's sinking light Makes the whole network glimmer. Now here, now there, a rainbow gleam Floats o'er the turf in silvery stream Of strange mysterious lightness. Then early autumn's frosts will strew Each thread with glancing beads of dew, Jewels of flashing brightness. The Spider. 295 Or when the winds the grasses shake, They blend the films in snowy flake ; So, said some ancient rhymer^ The lovely lady of the sky, In twilight floating, green earth nigh, There dropped her silvery cymar. C. M. YONGB. Gr(ue. A cymar — what 's that ? Aunt C. A scarf. The name is really said to be gotteS'Sammar^ the goddess's cymar ; and as the flowers, wells, insects, and whatever else had been named after the old goddess Freya, were transferred in Christian times to the Blessed Virgin, the Gossamer is called in France ^^Les fils de la Vierge^ and in Italy ^^ I filamenti de la Madonna!^ Grace. How very pretty ! I have one Spider poem more. THE SPIDER. Little Spider, 'tis not meet Thou should'st climb my grassy seat ; Turn thy course another way, Nor o'er my spreading garments stray. Fragile creature, touch of mine Could end this little life of thine ; Shall I press thee to the earth, And check thy tiny insect mirth ? No, pass on ; to thee and me The churchyard sods alike are free ; I seek the sun, and gentle breeze That whispers 'mid yon aspen trees. And He who makes all things His care. Of joys gives thee thy little share ; Go, speed thy way among the grass, Busy struggler, thou shalt pass. CMdrnit Frigmd. EVENING XXI. TEMPTATION AND FAITHFULNESS. Alice. You made the Spider stand for the tempter last night Now Grace and I have been finding another fable for you. THE YOUNG TROUT. In a stream bright and clear, A young Trout cried, " O dear, What a beautiful fly, mother ; only look here." " It may be a fly," Was the mother's reply ; " But be sure that it is ere to seize it you try." Said the young one, " Do look, Tis like what you took. Except that its tail is turned up like a hook. 298 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. ** But my eyes are so strongp And I 've watched it so long, I am sure it 's a fly, and I cannot be wrong. ^ Its eyes are so bright, And its wings are so light, Pish I mother dear, don't put yourself in a fright" Said her mother, ^ O pray Do not talk in that way ; Tis aflection that warns you, so mind what I say. ** Tis quite rude to say. Pish I When your safety I wish ; So be cautious, pray do, like a good little fish.^ Said the young one, " I will. Dear mother, be still ; I know by your side I shall come to no ill. " Though the fly looks so nice. Yet it shall not entice ; Look there ! oh, how lucky I took your advice 1 " A young fish has come by, And has seized the mock fly, And is draggr'd out of water ! Poor thing ! she will die. " Dear mother, let me Then constantly be Protected and governed and guided by thee." Temptation and Faithfulness. 299 Grace. That was a good little fish. I like it better than the one in Original Poems^ where the Trout would not mind her mother, and was caught Edmund. Those fables all tell the same story — Spider and Fly, Fox and Crow, all sing the same note — all tell how foolish it is to let oneself be humbugged I Grace. My fish was not Alice. No, because she was obedient. Aunt C. Exactly. Obedience and industry are good safeguards. And here is a bright little poem on that head, by Tom Moore. Alice. The man who wrote the Irish Melodies f Aunt C. The same. He was a clever Irishman, born in 1779, with a musical ear, a sweet voice, and great ease in composing flowing, harmonious poetry, not of a very high order. Some of it was, however, much admired, and he was a very agreeable, lively man, welcome in society ; so he spent most of his life in the neighbourhood of London, continually going to parties, and staying at country houses, where his music, singing, and wit made him welcome. But his poor wife, Bessie, at home must have had a hard life, for his tastes were too expensive for his gains, and he was 3cx> Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. constantly absent, though he was very fond of her. She lost all her children, one after the other ; but she seems to have been a patient, cheerful wife. Tom Moore died in 1853. Inthese verses he gives advice better than the counsels he always followed. YOUNG JESSICA. Young Jessica sat all the day. In love dreams languishingly pining, Her needle bright n^lected lay Like truant genius idly shining. Ah ! Jessy, 'tis in idle hearts That love and mischief are most nimble ; The safest shield against the darts Of Cupid is Minerva's thimble. A child who with a magnet pla}^. And knew its winning ways so wily. The magnet near the needle laid, And, laughing, said, " We '11 steal it slyly." The needle, having nought to do. Was pleased to let the magnet wheedle. Till closer still the tempter drew. And off at length eloped the needle. Now had that needle turned its eye To some gay reticule's construction. It ne'er had strayed from duty's tie. Nor felt the magnet's sly seduction. Temptation and Faithfulness. 301 Girls, if you would keep tranquil hearts, Your snowy fingers must be nimble ; The safest shield against the darts Of Cupid is Minerva's thimble. T. Moore. Edmund. You don't know what all that means, Grace. Grace. Yes, I do! I know Cupid was the little god of love, and Minerva was the goddess of wisdom, and of women's needlework too. Alice. Ask him if he knows what a reticule is ? Edmund. Not I. Some woman's nonsense, of course. Alice. Didn't it mean a bag ? Aunt C. Yes. In those days it was the fashion to wear very scanty dresses, and, instead of a pocket, to carry the handkerchief in a bag, generally black silk, which was called a reticule^ or, by the malicious, a ridicule. Let us follow this up with some pretty verses, translated from the Italian by Professor Anstice, showing how vain and empty it is to run after pleasure, away from duty. 302 Aunt Charlotte's Poetry Book. THE UNSUCCESSFUL CHASE. ** Come back, come back, my wand'ring child,*' Anxious called the mother mild, Beckoning, as the little maid With ready step the call obeyed. Disappointed of her game, Panting, up the hill she came ; But her story was b^[un Ere the summit quite she won. " Mother, mother, I have been Such a chase across the green. By a cruel bird outwitted. Still from bush to bush it flitted ; Rising oft, but soon alighting, Still avoiding, still inviting ; Now I thought it all my own. In a moment it was gone. Onward still my steps it drew, Then it spread its wing and flew ; What a world of pains it cost. Now the pretty treasure *s lost !" While the maid her tale repeated. Angry to be thus defeated, First the patient mother smiled. Then bespoke her pouting child, " Let thy chase, my darling, give Lesson to thee how to live. Temptatioft and Faithftilness. 303 From thine own pursuit and sorrow, From that bird, a warning borrow ; Rash and headlong, child, like thee Man pursues felicity ; Still illusive prospects cheer him, Still he thinks the treasure near him ; When he on the prize would spring. Bliss is ever on the wing. Thus his weary life he spends In a chase that never ends, Hopes conceived and baffled ever, Bootless quest and vain endeavour. From the Italian of Rossi, by Prof. Anstice. Aunt C. We will refresh ourselves with two poems upon Faithfulness. The first is by Dr. Richard Trench, now Archbishop of Dublin, and is about the Caliph Haroun AI Raschid, whom you all know very well. Grace. Who used to go about in disguise, and found the three Calendars with one eye ? Alice. Yes, the man in the Arabian Nights. Let us hear, pray. Aunt C I am afraid you will be disappointed, for this is not a wonderful adventure. i ^unt Charlotte s Poetry Book. THE SPILT PEARLS. His c owtfe f s all the Caliph ciave^ * Oh, say haw this may be. That of thy slaves this Ediiop slave Is best bdoved by tiiee. * FcM- he b hideous as the night ; And iriien has ever chose A nightii^ale, i y.Mms^mG^dd CM. Yomgg OU Et^Usk Bmiimd H.F.LfU . . M. E. SkipUy . WilUam Blake . F. W. BaurdiilcH . 7« G» Soxit . . 7. Af. NeaU . Bishop Corbet . Veritas . Skakspere . . IVorasworth . A, A. Proctor . From the Germum . Anon, . M. E, Shipley . Anon, . E B. Browning • £• O* mI» Gm . Theodore Taylor . A,or% Taylor . Dr, Neale . . Susan Jewett . S, Baring Gould . Anon. Pi "$ 272 "4 324 81 306 321 10 248 183 53 221 314 123 131 257 249 262 247 28 117 96 344 314 325 213 339 341 81 85 211 173 232 Index. 357 PAGE George Nidiver . Anon, . 201 German Watchman's Song, the . . From thi German . 154 Giant, a Modern . . A. 7. IV. . . lis Glow-worm and Nightingale, the . Cowper • 13 Glow-worm and Star, the . Wordsworth . 17 Glow-worm's Lamp, Dame . C M. Yonge . 10 Glow-worm, the . . Cowper . 12 Glutton, the Notorious . . Mrs. Gilbert 330 Goblin and Bear, the . Francis Dawson . 189 Gossamer Spider, the . C. M. Yonge . 294 Halcyons and Ceyx . Prof, Anstice 71 Heigh-ho, the Wind and the Ram . Shakspere . . 40 Hen and Chicken . 7. Keble • 334 Hide and Se Blakk Willkii^ia3. Bourdilloii, Fi^., 56. Browning* E. B., 313. Chaucer, 76. Corbet, Bishop, 357. Cowper, 12, 13, 31, 53, 114, aai, 272, 353- Coxe, Cleveland, 343. Dawson, Francis, 189. Dorset, Mrs., 62. Douglas, Marian, 327. Drayton, Michael, 351. Faber, F. W., 46, 336. Fav, Gerda, 3461 Follen, £. 229. Gay, 94. Gilbert, Mrs., 126, 324, 330, 332. Good, J. Mascm, 32a Gould, S. Baring, 98, 143, 173, 306, Gray, 37, 338. Hawker, R. S.. 162, 166, 185. Howitt, Mary, 285. 288. Howitt, William, 41- JEWETT, Susan, an. Keblb, J., 44. 313. 334« Lamb, Charles, 337, 37a Langbridge, F., 100^ 341* Longfellow, 48, 49^ 13a Lyt^ H* F*, 183* Macoonald, Gborob^j8i. Merridc 89. MiDer, Hugh, 178. . Moore, 30a Moriey, Professor, 358. Neale. Dr. !• M., 85, 131, 333. Neil. M. £., K)3. Proctor, A. A., 117. Rogers, S., 230. Roscoe, 59. Saxe, J. G., 87. Scott, Walter, 219. 22a Shakspere. 40, 246, 247. Shipley, M. E,, 137, 314. Smith, Charlotte, 351. Southey,3o. 157,275. Taylor, A. or T., 81. Taylor, Jane, 169. Taylor, Theodore, 341. Trench, 304. Watts, 240, 322. Westwood, T.. 23, 168. Whytehead, 282. Wordsworth, 17, 28, 148. 321. YONGE, C. M., 10, 294. Marcus ward & Co.. Royal Ulstrr works. Belfast.