Project Gutenberg's Mother Goose for Grown Folks, by Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Mother Goose for Grown Folks Author: Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney Illustrator: Augustus Hoppin Release Date: April 1, 2014 [EBook #45301] Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MOTHER GOOSE FOR GROWN FOLKS *** Produced by David Widger from page images generously provided by the Internet Archive MOTHER GOOSE FOR GROWN FOLKS BY MRS. A. D. T. WHITNEY Illustrated By Augustus Hoppin Boston Houghton, Mifflin And Company 1883 [Illustration: 0001] [Illustration: 0006] [Illustration: 0007] [Illustration: 0009] INTRODUCTORY. |Somewhere in that uncertain "long ago," Whose dim and vague chronology is all That elfin tales or nursery fables know, Rose a rare spirit,--keen, and quick, and quaint,-- Whom by the title, whether fact or feint, Mythic or real, Mother Goose we call. Of Momus and Minerva sprang the birth That gave the laughing oracle to earth: A brimming bowl she bears, that, frothing high With sparkling nonsense, seemeth non- sense all; Till, the bright, floating syllabub blown by, Lo, in its ruby splendor doth upshine The crimson radiance of Olympian wine By Pallas poured, in Jove's own banquet- hall. The world was but a baby when she came; So to her songs it listened, and her name Grew to a word of power, her voice a spell With charm to soothe its infant wearying well. But, in a later and maturer age, Developed to a dignity more sage, Having its Shakspeares and its Words- worths now, Its Southeys and its Tennysons, to wear A halo on the high and lordly brow, Or poet-laurels in the waving hair; Its Lowells, Whittiers, Longfellows, to sing Ballads of beauty, like the notes of spring, The wise and prudent ones to nursery use Leave the dear lyrics of old Mother Goose. Wisdom of babes,--the nursery Shak- speare stilly-- Cackles she ever with the same good-will: Uttering deep counsels in a foolish guise, That come as warnings, even to the wise; As when, of old, the martial city slept, Unconscious of the wily foe that crept Under the midnight, till the alarm was heard Out from the mouth of Rome's plebeian bird. Full many a rare and subtile thing hath she, Undreamed of in the world's philosophy: Toss-balls for children hath she humbly rolled, That shining jewels secretly enfold; Sibylline leaves she casteth on the air, Twisted in fool's-caps, blown unheeded by, That, in their lines grotesque, albeit, bear Words of grave truth, and signal prophecy; And lurking satire, whose sharp lashes hit A world of follies with their homely writ; With here and there a roughly uttered hint, That makes you wonder at the beauty in't; As if, along the wayside's dusty edge, A hot-house flower had blossomed in a hedge. So, like brave Layard in old Nineveh, Among the memories of ancient song, As curious relics, I would fain bestir; And gather, if it might be, into strong And shapely show, some wealth of its lost lore; Fragments of Truth's own architecture, strewed In forms disjointed, whimsical, and rude, That yet, to simpler vision, grandly stood Complete, beneath the golden light of BRAHMIC. |If a great poet think he sings, Or if the poem think it's sung, They do but sport the scattered plumes That Mother Goose aside hath flung. Far or forgot to me is near: Shakspeare and Punch are all the same; The vanished thoughts do reappear, And shape themselves to fun or fame. They use my _quills_, and leave me out, Oblivious that I wear the _wings_; Or that a Goose has been about, When every little gosling sings. Strong men may strive for grander thought, But, six times out of every seven, My old philosophy hath taught All they can master this side heaven. LITTLE BOY BLUE. "Little boy blue! come blow your horn! The sheep in the meadow, the cows in the corn! Where's little boy blue, that looks after the sheep? He's under the hay-mow, fast asleep!" |Of morals in novels, we've had not a few; With now and then novel moralities too; And we 've weekly exhortings from pulpit to pew; But it strikes me,--and so it may chance to strike you,-- Scarce any are better than "Little Boy Blue." For the veteran dame knows her business: right well, And her quaint admonitions unerringly tell: She strings a few odd, careless words in a jingle, And the sharp, latent truth fairly makes your ears tingle. "Azure-robed Youth!" she cries, "up to thy post! And watch, lest thy wealth be all scattered and lost: Silly thoughts are astray, beyond call of the horn, And passion breaks loose, and gets into the corn! Is this the way Conscience looks after her sheep? In the world's soothing shadow, gone sound- ly asleep?" Is n't _that_, now, a sermon? No lengthened vexation Of heads, and divisions, and argumenta- tion, But a straightforward leap to the sure ap- plication; And, though many a longer harangue is forgot, Of which careful reporters take notes on the spot, I think,--as the "Deacon" declared of his "shay," Put together for lasting for ever and aye,-- A like immortality holding in view, The old lady's discourse will undoubtedly "dew"! HICCOKY, DICCORY, DOCK. "Hiccory, diccory, dock! The mouse ran up the clock. The clock struck one, and down she run: Hiccory, diccory, dock!" |She had her simple nest in a safe and cun- ning place, Away down in the quiet of the deep, old- fashioned case. A little crevice nibbled out led forth into the world, And overhead, on busy wheels, the hours and minutes whirled. High up in mystic glooms of space was awful scenery Of wires, and weights, and springs, and all great Time's machinery; But she had nought to do with these; a blessed little mouse, Whose only care beneath the sun was just to keep her house. For this was all she knew, or could; with- out her, just the same The earth's great centre drew the weight; the pendulum went and came; And days were born, and grew, and died; and stroke by stroke were told The hours by which the world and men are ever growing old. It suddenly occurred to her,--it struck her all at once,-- That living among things of power, her- self had been a dunce. "Somebody winds the clock!" she cried "Somebody comes and brings An iron finger that feels through and fum- bles at the springs; "And then it happens; then the buzz is stirred afar and near, And the hour sounds, and everywhere the great world stops to hear. I don't think, after all, it seems so hard a thing to do. I know the way--I might run up and make folks listen too." She sprang upon the leaden weight; but not the merest whit Did all her added gravity avail to hurry it. She clambered up the steady cord; it wav- ered not a hair. She got among the earnest wheels; they knew not she was there. She sat beside the silent bell; the patient hammer lay Waiting an unseen bidding for the word that it should say. Only a solemn whisper thrilled the cham- bers of the clock, And the mouse listened: "Hiccory! hie-- diccory! die--dock!" Something was coming. She had hit the ripeness of the time; No tiny second was outreached by that ex- ultant climb; In no wise did the planet turn the faster to the sun; She only met the instant, but the great clock sounded--"One!" What then? Did she stand gloriously among those central things, Her eye upon the vibrant bell, her heel upon the springs? Was her soul grand in unison with that resounding chime, And her pulse-beat identical with the high pulse of Time? Ah, she was little! When the air first shattered with that shock, Down ran the mouse into her hole. "Hic, diccory! die--dock!" Too plain to be translated is the truth the tale would show, Small souls, in solemn upshot, had better wait below. BO-PEEP. "Little Bo-Peep Has lost her sheep, And does n't know where to find 'em; Let 'em alone, And they 'll come home, And bring their tails behind 'em." |Hope beckoned Youth, and bade him keep, On Life's broad plain, his shining sheep, And while along the sward they came, He called them over, each by name; This one was Friendship,--that was Health; Another Love,--another Wealth; One, fat, full-fleeced, was Social Station; Another, stainless, Reputation; In truth, a goodly flock of sheep,-- A goodly flock, but hard to keep. Youth laid him down beside a fountain; Hope spread his wings to scale a mountain; And, somehow, Youth fell fast asleep, And left his crook to tend the sheep: No wonder, as the legend says, They took to very crooked ways. He woke--to hear a distant bleating,-- The faithless quadrupeds were fleeting! Wealth vanished first, with stealthy tread, Then Friendship followed--to be fed,-- And foolish Love was after led; Fair Fame,--alas! some thievish scamp Had marked him with his own black stamp! And he, with Honor at his heels, Was out of sight across the fields. Health just hangs doubtful,--distant Hope Looks backward from the mountain slope,-- And Youth himself--no longer Youth-- Stands face to face with bitter Truth. Yet let them go! 'T were all in vain To linger here in faith to find 'em; Forward!--nor pause to think of pain,-- Till somewhere, on a nobler plain, A surer Hope shall lead the train Of joys withheld to come again With golden fleeces trailed behind 'em! SOLOMON GRUNDY. "Solomon Grundy Born on Monday, Christened on Tuesday, Married on Wednesday, Sick on Thursday, Worse on Friday, Dead on Saturday, Buried on Sunday: This was the end Of Solomon Grundy." So sings the unpretentious Muse That guides the quill of Mother Goose, And in one week of mortal strife Presents the epitome of Life: But down sits Billy Shakspeare next, And, coolly taking up the text, His thought pursues the trail of mine, And, lo! the "Seven Ages" shine! O world! O critics! _can't_ you see How Shakspeare plagiarizes me? And other bards will after come, To echo in a later age, "He lived,--he died: behold the sum, The abstract of the historian's page" Yet once for all the thing was done, Complete in Grundy's pilgrimage. For not a child upon the knee But hath the moral learned of me; And measured, in a seven days' span, The whole experience of man. BOWLS. "Three wise men of Gotham Went to sea in a bowl: If the bowl had been stronger, My song had been longer." |Mysteriously suggestive! A vague hint, Yet a rare touch of most effective art, That of the bowl, and all the voyagers in't, Tells nothing, save the fact that they did start. There ending suddenly, with subtle craft, The story stands--as 'twere a broken shafts--' More eloquent in mute signification, Than lengthened detail, or precise relation. So perfect in its very non-achieving, That, of a truth, I cannot help believing A rash attempt at paraphrasing it May prove a blunder, rather than a hit. Still, I must wish the venerable soul Had been explicit as regards the bowl Was it, perhaps, a railroad speculation? Or a big ship to carry all creation, That, by some kink of its machinery, Failed, in the end, to carry even three? Or other fond, erroneous calculation Of splendid schemes that died disastrously? It must have been of Gotham manufacture; Though strangely weak, and liable to frac- ture. Yet--pause a moment--strangely, did I say? Scarcely, since, after all, it was but clay;-- The stuff Hope takes to build her brittle boat, And therein sets the wisest men afloat. Truly, a bark would need be somewhat stronger, To make the halting history much longer. Doubtless, the good Dame did but gener- alize,-- Took a broad glance at human enterprise, And earthly expectation, and so drew, In pithy lines, a parable most true,-- Kindly to warn us ere we sail away, With life's great venture, in an ark of clay, Where shivered fragments all around be- token, How even the "golden bowl" at last lies broken! [Illustration: 0044] CRADLED IN GREEN. "Rockaby, baby, Your cradle is green; Father's a nobleman, Mother's a queen; And Betty's a lady, And wears a gold ring, And Johnny's a drummer, And drums for the king!" O golden gift of childhood! That, with its kingly touch, Transforms to more than royalty The thing it loveth much! O second sight, bestowed alone Upon the baby seer, That the glory held in Heaven's reserve Discerneth even here! Though he be the humblest craftsman, No silk nor ermine piled Could make the father seem a whit More noble to the child; And the mother,--ah, what queenlier crown Could rest upon her brow, Than the fair and gentle dignity It weareth to him now? E'en the gilded ring that Michael For a penny fairing bought, Is the seal of Betty's ladyhood To his untutored thought; And the darling drum about his neck,-- His very newest toy,-- A bandsman unto Majesty Hath straightway made the boy! O golden gift of childhood! If the talisman might last, How the dull Present still should gleam With the glory of the Past! But the things of earth about us Fade and dwindle as we go, And the long perspective of our life Is truth, and not a show! "SIMILIA SIMILIBUS." "There was a man in our town, And he was wondrous wise: He jumped into a bramble-bush, And scratched out both his eyes. But when he saw his eyes were out, With all his might and main He jumped into another bush, And scratched them in again!" |Old Dr. Hahnemann read the tale, (And he was wondrous wise,) Of the man who, in the bramble-bush, Had scratched out both his eyes. And the fancy tickled mightily His misty German brain, That, by jumping in another bush, He got them back again. So he called it "homo-hop-athy". And soon it came about, That a curious crowd among the thorns Was hopping in and out. Yet, disguise it by the longest name They may, it is no use; For the world knows the discovery Was made by Mother Goose! And not alone in medicine Doth the theory hold good; In Life and in Philosophy, The maxim still hath stood: A morsel more of anything, When one has got enough, And Nature's energy disowns The whole unkindly stuff. A second negative affirms; And two magnetic poles Of charge identical, repel,-- A s sameness sunders souls. Touched with a first, fresh suffering, All solace is despised; But gathered sorrows grow serene, And grief is neutralized. And he who, in the world's _melee_, Hath chanced the worse to catch, May mend the matter, if he come Back, boldly, to the scratch; Minding the lesson he received In boyhood, from his mother. Whose cheery word, for many a bump, Was, Up and take another! HOBBY-HORSES. "I had a little pony, His name was Dapple Gray: I lent him to a lady To ride a mile away. She whipped him, She lashed him, She rode him through the mire; I would n't lend my pony now, For all the lady's hire." |Our hobbies, of whatever sort They be, mine honest friend, Of fancy, enterprise, or thought, 'T is hardly wise to lend. Some fair imagination, shrined In form poetic, maybe, You fondly trusted to the World,-- That most capricious Lady. Or a high, romantic theory, Magnificently planned, In flush of eager confidence You bade her take in hand. But she whipped it, and she lashed it, And bespattered it with mire, Till your very soul felt stained within, And scourged with stripes of fire. Yet take this thought, and hold it fast, Ye Martyrs of To-day! That same great World, with all its scorn, _You 've lifted_ on its way! MISSIONS. "Hogs in the garden,-- Catch 'em, Towser! Cows in the cornfield,-- Run, boys, run! Fire on the mountains,-- Run, boys, run boys! Cats in the cream-pot,-- Run, girls, run!" I don't stand up for Woman's Right Not I,--no, no! The real lionesses fight,-- I let it go. Yet, somehow, as I catch the call Of the world's voice, That speaks a summons unto all Its girls and boys; In such strange contrast still it rings As church-bells' bome To the pert sound of tinkling things One hears at home; And wakes an impulse, not germane Perhaps, to woman, Yet with a thrill that makes it plain 'T is truly human;-- A sudden tingle at the springs Of noble feeling, The spirit-power for valiant things Clearly revealing. But Eden's curse doth daily deal Its certain dole,-- And the old grasp upon the heel Holds back the soul! So, when some rousing deed's to do, To save a nation, Or, on the mountains, to subdue A conflagration, Woman! the work is not for you; Mind your vocation! Out from the cream-pot comes a mew Of tribulation! Meekly the world's great exploits leave Unto your betters; So bear the punishment of Eve, Spirit in fetters! Only, the hidden fires will glow, And, now and then, A beacon blazeth out below That startles men! Some Joan, through battle-field to stake, Danger embracing; Some Florence, for sweet mercy's sake Pestilence facing; Whose holy valor vindicates The royal birth That, for its crowning, only waits The end of earth; And, haply, when we all stand freed, In strength immortal, Such virgin-lamps the host shall lead Through heaven's portal! GOING BACK TO OUR MUTTONS "There was an old man of Tobago, Who lived on rice, gruel, and sago, Till, much to his bliss, His physician said this: To a leg, sir, of mutton, you may go. He set a monkey to baste the mutton, And ten pounds of butter he put on." |Chain up a child, and away he will go"; I have heard of the proverb interpreted so; The spendthrift is son to the miser,--and still, When the Devil would work his most piti- less will, He sends forth the seven, for such embas- sies kept, To the house that is empty and garnished and swept: For poor human nature a pendulum seems., That must constantly vibrate between two extremes. The closer the arrow is drawn to the bow, Once slipped from the string, all the further 't will go: Let a panic arise in the world of finance, And the mad flight of Fashion be checked by the chance, It certainly seems a most wonderful thing, When the ropes are let go again, how it will swing! And even the decent observance of Lent, Stirs sometimes a doubt how the time has been spent, When Easter brings out the new bonnets and gowns, And a flood of gay colors o'erflows in the towns. So in all things the feast doth still follow the fast, And the force of the contrast gives zest to the last; And until he is tried, no frail mortal can tell, The inch being offered, he won't take the ell. We are righteously shocked at the follies of fashion; Nay, standing outside, may get quite in a passion At the prodigal flourishes other folks put on: But many good people this side of Tobago, If respited once from their diet of sago, Would outdo the monkey in basting the mutton! GOING TO DOVER. "Leg over leg As the dog went to Dover; When he came to a stile, Jump he went over." |Perhaps you would n't see it here, But, to my fancy, 't is quite clear That Mother Goose just meant to show How the dog Patience on doth go: With steadfast nozzle, pointing low,-- Leg over leg, however slow,-- And labored breath, but naught complaining, Still, at each footstep, somewhat gaining,-- Quietly plodding, mile on mile, And gathering for a nervous bound At every interposing stile,-- So traversing the tedious ground, Till all at length, he measures over, And walks, a victor, into Dover. And, verily, no other way Doth human progress win the day; Step after step,--and o'er and o'er,-- Each seeming like the one before, So that't is only once a while,-- When sudden Genius springs the stile That marks a section of the plain, Beyond whose bound fresh fields again Their widening stretch untrodden sweep,-- The world looks round to see the leap. Pale Science, in her laboratory, Works on with crucible and wire Unnoticed, till an instant glory Crowns some high issue, as with fire, And men, with wondering eyes awide, Gauge great Invention's giant stride. No age, no race, no single soul, By lofty tumbling gains the goal. The steady pace it keeps between,-- The little points it makes unseen,-- By these, achieved in gathering might, It moveth on, and out of sight, And wins, through all that's overpast, The city of its hopes at last. RAGS AND ROBES. "Hark, hark! The dogs do bark; Beggars are coming to town: Some in rags, Some in tags," And some in velvet gowns!" Coming, coming always! Crowding into earth; Seizing on this human life, Beggars from the birth. Some in patent penury; Some, alas! in shame; And some in fading velvet Of hereditary fame; But all in deep, appeaseless want, As mendicants to live; And go beseeching through the world, For what the world may give. Beggars, beggars, all of us! Expectants from "our youth: With hands outstretched, and asking alms Of Hope and Love and Truth. Nor, verily, doth he escape Who, wrapt in cold contempt, Denies alike to give or take, And dreams himself exempt; Who never, in appeal to man, Nor in a prayer to Heaven, Will own that aught he doth desire, Or ask that aught be given. Whose human heart a stoic pride Folds as a velvet pall; Yet hides an eagreness within, Worse beggary than all! Coming, coming always! And the bluff Apostle waits As the throng pours upward from the earth To Heaven's eternal gates. In shreds of torn affection, In passion-rended rags; While scarcely at the portal The great procession flags; For the pillared doors of glory On their hinges hang awide; Where each asking soul may enter, And at last be satisfied! But a cold, calm shade arriveth, In self-complacent trim,-- And Peter riseth up to see Especially to him. "Good morrow, saint! I'm going in To take a stroll, you know; Not that I _want_ for anything,-- But just to see the show!" "Hold!" thunders out the warden, "Be pleased to pause a bit! For seats celestial, let me say, You 're not apparelled fit: _Yonder 's_ the brazen door that leads Spectators to the pit! Whatever may be thought on earth, We've other rules in heaven; And only poverty confessed Finds free admittance given!" BLACKBIRDS. "Sing a song o' sixpence, a pocket full of rye; Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie: When the pie was opened, they all began to sing, And was n't this a dainty dish to set before the king? The king was in his counting-house, counting out his money; The queen was in the parlor, eating bread and honey; The maid was in the garden, hanging out the clothes, And along came a blackbird, and nipt off her nose!" It doesn't take a conjurer to see The sort of curious pasty this might be; A flock of flying rumors, caught alive, And housed, like swarming bees within a hive,-- Instead of what were far more wisely done, Having their worthless necks wrung, every one;-- And so a dish of dainty gossip making, Smooth covered with a show of secrecy, That one but takes the pleasant pains of breaking, And out the wide-mouthed knaves pop, eagerly. Blackbirds, indeed! Each chattering on- dit Comes forth, full feathered, black as black can be; With quivering throats, all tremulous to sing, And please, forsooth, some little social king; Whose reign may last as long as he is able To call his court around a dinner-table. But, mark the sequel! When the laugh is over, Think not to get the varlets under cover: The crust once broken, you may seek in vain To catch the birds, or coax them in again; Mrs. Pandora's famous box, I wis, Was nothing worse than such a pie as this: And so, some pleasant morning,--when, down town, The king is busy with his bags of money, Leaving at home the queenly Mrs. Brown Safe at her breakfast of fair bread and honey,-- Some quiet, harmless soul, who never knows Of any matters, save the plain pursuing Her daily round,--the hanging out of clothes Or other lawful work she may be doing,-- Finds, by the sudden nipping of her nose, What sort of mischief is about her brew- ing! Not that, indeed, there's anything to hinder The thieves from flying though the parlor window; For never yet could sentinel or warden Keep scandals wholly to the kitchen gar- den. When, therefore, as not seldom it may be, Even in the soberest community, Strange revelations somehow get about,-- Like a mysterious cholera breaking out Sudden, as Egypt's blains 'neath Aaron's rod, Contagious by a whisper or a nod,-- When daily papers teem with many a hint That daubs them darker even than their print; When it would seem, in short, the very D----, Had let his little imps out on a spree; Conclude, beyond a reasonable doubt, Although, perhaps, you fail to trace it out, Such plagues spring not unbidden from the ground, And, if the thing were sifted, 't would be found _Somebody 's_ sown a pocket full of rye, Or been regaling on a blackbird pie! BANBURY CROSS. [Illustration: 0076] "Ride a fine horse To Banbury Cross, To see a young woman Jump on a white horse. Rings on her fingers, And bells on her toes, And she shall have music Wherever she goes." Prophetic Dame! What hadst thou in view? A modern wedding in Fifth Avenue? Where,--like the goddess of a heathen shrine, With offerings heaped in such a glittering show As must have emptied a Peruvian mine, And would suggest, but that we better know, Marriage must be a bitter thing indeed, And, like the Prophet of the Eastern tale, Must wear a very ugly face, to need Such careful shrouding in the silver veil,-- Her bridal pomp, as a white palfrey, mount- ing, Caparisoned at cost beyond all counting, With diamond-jewelled fingers, and the toes Ditto, for all that anybody knows, The smiling damsel goeth to the Banns? (Why add the "bury," or suggest the "cross," As if such brilliant ringing of the hands Preluded aught of trial or of loss?) Shall not Life's golden bells still tinkle sweet, And merry music make about her feet? Shall not the silver sheen around her spread, A lasting light along her pathway shed? No mocking satire, surely, hides a sting, Nor bitter irony a truth foreshows, In the gay chant the cheery dame doth sing,-- "She shall have music wheresoe'er she goes"? _She_ shall have music! Shall she sit apart, And let the folly-chimes outvoice the tone That comes up wailing to the listening heart, From the great world, where misery maketh moan? Ah, Mother Goose! if such the tale it tells, Sing us no more your rhyme of rings and bells! But may not--'twere a rare device in- deed!-- The wondrous oracle in both ways read? And call up, as a fair beatitude, The gracious vision of true womanhood, That with pure purpose, and a gentle might, Upheld and borne, as by the steed of white, Pledged with her golden ring, goes nobly forth To trace her path of joy along the earth,-- And, as she moves, makes music, silver-shod "With preparation of the peace" of God, That holds the key-note of celestial cheer, And hangs heaven's echoes round her foot- steps here? ATTIC SALT. "Two little blackbirds sat upon a hill, One named Jack, the other named Jill Fly away, Jack! fly away, Jill! Come again, Jack! come again, Jill!" |I half suspect that, after all, There's just the smallest bit Of inequality between The witling and the wit. 'Tis only mental nimbleness: No language ever brought A living word to soul of man But had the latent thought. You may meet, among the million, Good people every day,-- Unconscious martyrs to their fate,-- Who seem, in half they say, On the brink of something brilliant They were almost sure to clinch, Yet, by some queer freak of fortune, Just escape it by an inch! I often think the selfsame shade,-- This difference of a hair,-- Divides between the men of nought And those who do and dare. An instant cometh on the wing, Bearing a kingly crown: This man is dazzled and lets it by-- _That_ seizes and brings it down. Winged things may stoop to any door Alighting close and low; And up and down, 'twixt earth and sky, Do always come and go. Swift, fluttering glimpses touch us all, Yet, prithee, what avails? 'Tis only Genius that can put The salt upon their tails! THE BIG SHOE. "There was an old woman Who lived in a shoe; She had so many children She did n't know what to do: To some she gave broth, And to some she gave bread, And some she whipped soundly, And sent them to bed." |Do you find out the likeness? A portly old Dame,-- The mother of millions,-- Britannia by name: And--howe'er it may strike you In reading the song-- Not stinted in space For bestowing the throng; Since the Sun can himself Hardly manage to go, In a day and a night, From the heel to the toe. On the arch of the instep She builds up her throne, And, with seas rolling under, She sits there alone; With her heel at the foot Of the Himmalehs planted, And her toe in the icebergs, Unchilled and undaunted. Yet though justly of all Her fine family proud, 'Tis no light undertaking To rule such a crowd; Not to mention the trouble Of seeing them fed, And dispensing with justice The broth and the bread. Some will seize upon one,-- Some are left with the other, And so the whole household Gets into a pother. But the rigid old Dame Has a summary way Of her own, when she finds There is mischief to pay. She just takes up the rod, As she lays down the spoon, And makes their rebellious backs Tingle right soon: Then she bids them, while yet The sore smarting they feel, To lie down, and go to sleep, Under her heel! Only once was she posed,-- When the little boy Sam, Who had always before Been as meek as a lamb, Refused to take tea, As his mother had bid, And returned saucy answers Because he was chid. Not content even then, He cut loose from the throne, And set about making A shoe of his own; Which succeeded so well, And was filled up so fast, That the world, in amazement, Confessed, at the last,-- Looking on at the work With a gasp and a stare,-- That't was hard to tell which Would be best of the pair. Side by side they are standing Together to-day; Side by side may they keep Their strong foothold for aye: And beneath the broad sea, Whose blue depths intervene, May the finishing string Lie unbroken between! VICTUALS AND DRINK. "There once was a woman, And what do you think? She lived upon nothing But victuals and drink. Victuals and drink "Were the chief of her diet, And yet this poor woman Scarce ever was quiet." And were you so foolish As really to think That all she could want Was her victuals and drink? And that while she was furnished With that sort of diet, Her feeling and fancy Would starve, and be quiet? Mother Goose knew far better; But thought it sufficient To give a mere hint That the fare was deficient; For I do not believe She could ever have meant To imply there was reason For being content. Yet the mass of mankind Is uncommonly slow To acknowledge the fact It behooves them to know; Or to learn that a woman Is not like a mouse, Needing nothing but cheese, And the walls of a house. But just take a man,-- Shut him up for a day; Get his hat and his cane,-- Put them snugly away; Give him stockings to mend, And three sumptuous meals;-- And then ask him, at night, If you dare, how he feels! Do you think he will quietly Stick to the stocking, While you read the news, And "don't care about talking?" O, many a woman Goes starving, I ween, Who lives in a palace, And fares like a queen; Till the famishing heart, And the feverish brain, Have spelled to life's end The long lesson of pain. Yet, stay! To my mind An uneasy suggestion Comes up, that there may be Two sides to the question. That, while here and there proving Inflicted privation, The verdict must often be "Wilful starvation." Since there _are_ men and women Would force one to think They _choose_ to live only On victuals and drink. O restless, and craving, Unsatisfied hearts, Whence never the vulture Of hunger departs! How long on the husks Of your life will ye feed, Ignoring the soul, And her famishing need? Bethink you, when lulled In your shallow content, 'Twas to Lazarus only The angels were sent; And 't is he to whose lips But earth's ashes are given, For whom the full banquet Is gathered in heaven! "There was an old woman Tossed up in a blanket, Seventeen times as high as the moon; What she did there I cannot tell you, But in her hand she carried a broom. Old woman, old woman, Old woman, said I, O whither, O whither, O whither so high? To sweep the cobwebs Off the sky, And I 'll be back again, by and by." |Mind you, she wore no _wings_, That she might truly _soar_; no time was lost In growing such unnecessary things; But blindly, in a blanket, she was _tost!_ Spasmodically, too! 'T was not enough that she should reach the moon; But seventeen times the distance she must do, Lest, peradventure, she get back too soon. That emblematic broom! Besom of mad Reform, uplifted high, That, to reach cobwebs, would precipitate doom, And sweep down thunderbolts from out the sky! Doubtless, no rubbish lay About her door,--no work was there to do,-- That through the astonished aisles of Night and Day, She took her valorous flight in quest of new! Lo! at her little broom The great stars laugh, as on their wheels of fire They go, dispersing the eternal gloom, And shake Time's dust from off each blazing tire! "Little Miss Muffet Sat on a tuffet, Eating curds and whey: There came a black spider, And sat down beside her, And frightened Miss Muffet away," |To all mortal blisses, From comfits to kisses, There's sure to be something by way of alloy; Each new expectation Brings fresh aggravation, And a doubtful amalgam's the best of our You may sit on your tuffet; Yes,--cushion and stuff it; And provide what you please, if you don't fancy whey; But before you can eat it, There 'll be--I repeat it-- Some sort of black spider to come in the way. DAFFY-DOWN-DILLY. "Daffy-down-dilly Is new come to town, With a petticoat green, And a bright yellow gown, And her little white blossoms Are peeping around." |Now don't you call this A most exquisite thing? Don't it give you a thrill With the thought of the spring, Such as once, in your childhood, You felt, when you found The first yellow buttercups Spangling the ground? When the lilac was fresh With its glory of leaves, And the swallows came fluttering Under the eaves? When the bluebird flashed by Like a magical thing, And you looked for a fairy Astride of his wing? When the clear, running water, Like tinkling of bells, Bore along the bare roadside A song of the dells,-- And the mornings were fresh With unfailing delight, While the sweet summer hush Always came with the night? O' daffy-down-dilly, With robings of gold I As our hearts every year To your coming unfold, And sweet memories stir Through the hardening mould, We feel how earth's blossomings Surely are given To keep the soul fresh For the spring-time of heaven! BAA, BAA, BLACK SHEEP! "Baa, baa, black sheep! Have you any wool? Yes, sir,--no, sir,-- Three bags full. One for my master, One for my dame, And one for the little boy That lives in the lane." |T is the same question as of old; And still the doubter saith, "Can any good be made to come From out of Nazareth?" No sheep so black in all the flock,-- No human heart so bare,-- But hath some warm and generous stock Of kindliness to share. It may be treasured secretly For dear ones at the hearth; Or be bestowed by stealth along The by-ways of the earth;-- And though no searching eye may see, Nor busy tongue may tell, Perchance, where largest love is laid, The Master knoweth well! THE TWISTER. A twister, in twisting, would twist him a twist, And, twisting his twists, seven twists he doth twist: If one twist, in twisting, untwist from the twist, The twist, untwisting, untwists the twist." |A ravelled rainbow overhead Lets down to life its varying thread: Love's blue,--Joy's gold,--and, fair be- tween, Hope's shifting light of emerald green; With, either side, in deep relief, A crimson Pain,--a violet Grief. Wouldst thou, amid their gleaming hues, Clutch after those, and these refuse? Believe,--as thy beseeching eyes Follow their lines, and sound the skies,-- There, where the fadeless glories shine, An unseen angel twists the twine. And be thou sure, what tint so e'er The broken rays beneath may wear, It needs them all, that, broad and white, God's love may weave the perfect light! FANTASY. "I have a little sister, They call her peep, peep; She wades through the water, Deep, deep, deep; She climbs up the mountains, High, high, high; ' My poor little sister, She has but one eye!" |Rough Common Sense doth here confess Her kinship to Imagination; Betraying also, I should guess, Some little pride in the relation. [Illustration: 0109] For even while vexed, and puzzled too, By the vagaries of the latter,-- Fearful what next the child may do,-- She looks with loving wonder at her. Plain Sense keeps ever to the road That's beaten down and daily trod; While Fancy fords the rivers wide, And scrambles up the mountain-side: By which exploits she's always getting Either a tumble or a wetting. While simple Sense looks straight before, Fancy "peeps" further, and sees more; And yet, if left to walk alone, May chance, like most long-sighted people, To trip her foot against a stone While gazing at a distant steeple. Nay, worse! with all her grace erratic, And feats aerial and aquatic, Her flights sublime, and moods ecstatic, She of the vision wild and high Hath but a solitary eye! And,--not to quote the Scripture, which Forebodes the falling in the ditch,-- Doubtless by following such a guide Blindly, in all her wanderings wide, The world, at best, would get o' one side. What then? To rid us of our doubt Is there no other thing to do But we must turn poor Fancy out, And only downright Fact pursue? Ah, see you not, bewildered man! The heavenly beauty of the plan? 'T was so ordained, in counsels high, To give to sweet Imagination A single deep and glorious eye; But then't was meant, in compensation, That Common Sense, with optics keen,-- As maid of honor to a queen,-- On her blind side should always stay, And keep her in the middle way. JINGLING AND JANGLING. "Little Jack Jingle Used to live single. But when he got tired Of that kind of life, He left off being single, And lived with his wife." |Your period's pointed, most excellent Moth- er! Pray what did he do when he tired of the other? For a man so deplorably prone to ennui But a queer sort of husband is likely to be. The fatigue might recur,--and, in case it should be so, Why not take a wife on a limited lease, O? Grant the privilege, pray, to his idiosyn- crazy,-- Some natures won't bear to be too closely pinned, you see,-- And, at worst, the poor Benedict might advertise, When weary, at length, of the light of his eyes,-- Or failing to find her, it may be, in salt,-- "Disposed of, indeed, for no manner of fault," (To borrow a figure of speech from the mart,) "But because the late owner has taken a start!" I believe once before you have cautiously said Something quite as concise on this delicate head, When distantly hinting at "needles and pins," And that "when a man marries, his trouble begins"; But I don't recollect that you ever pretend To prophesy anything as to the _end_. Unless we may learn it of Peter,--the bumpkin, Renowned for naught else but his eating of pumpkin; Whose wife--I don't see how he happened to get her-- Had a taste, very likely, for things that were better: Since, fearing to lose her, at last it be- fell He bethought him of shutting her up in a shell; By which brilliant contrivance she _kept_ very well! What he did with her next, the old rhyme does n't say, But she seems to be somehow got out of the way, For the ill-fated Peter was wedded once more, To find his bewilderment worse than be- fore; "If the first for her spouse had but small predilection, Now 't was his turn, alas! to fall short in affection. And how do you think that he conquered the evil? Why, simply by _lifting himself to her level_; By leaving his pumpkins, and learning to spell, He came, saith the story, to love her right well; And the mythical memoir its moral con- trives For the lasting instruction of husband* and wives. THE OLD WOMAN OF SURREY. "There was an old woman in Surrey, Who was morn, noon, and night in a hurry; Called her husband a fool, Drove the children to school, The worrying old woman of Surrey." |T was an ancient earldom over the sea, And it must be now as it used to be; Yet the sketch is of one I have known before,-- The very old woman that lives next door. One thing is unquestionable,--she 's "smart,"-- As they say of an apple that's rather tart; For her nearest friends, I think, would allow her To be, at her best, but a "pleasant sour." There's a certain electrical atmosphere That you feel beforehand, when she's near: And--unless you 'ye a wonderful deal of pluck-- A shrinking fear that you might be "struck." She moves with such a bustle and rush,-- Such an elemental stir and crush, As makes the branches bend and fall In the breeze that blows up a thunder-squall. And yet, it is only her endless "hurry"; She's not so bad if she would n't "worry." And, for all the worlds that she has to make. If the six days' time she 'd only take. You may talk about Surrey, or Devon, or Kent, But I doubt if a special location was meant; It may sound severe,--but it seems to me That a "representative" woman was she; And that here and there you may chance to trace Some specimens extant of the race: For a slip of the stock, as I've a notion, Somehow "in the Mayflower" crossed the ocean. PICKLE PEPPERS. "Peter Piper picked a peck of pickle peppers; And a peck of pickle peppers Peter Piper picked; If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickle peppers Where's the peck of pickle peppers Peter Piper picked?" |Poor Peter toiled his life away, That afterward the world might say "Where is the peck of peppers he Did gather so industriously?" The peppers are embalmed in metre,-- But who, alas! inquires for Peter? In sun or storm, by night and day, Scant time for sleep, and none for play, Still the poor fool did nothing reck, If only he might pick his peck: And what result from all hath sprung, But just to bite somebody's tongue? Or,--Lady Fortune playing fickle,-- Get some one in a precious pickle? HUMPTY DUMPTY. "Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall; Humpty Dumpty had a great fall: Not all the king's horses nor all the king's men Could set Humpty Dumpty up again." |Full many a project that never was hatched Falls down, and gets shattered beyond be- ing patched; And luckily, too! for if all came to chick- ens, Then things without feathers might go to the dickens. If each restless unit that moves among men Might climb to a place with the privileged "ten," Pray tell us where all the commotion would stop! Must the whole pan of milk, forsooth, rise to the top? If always the statesman attained to his hopes, And grasped the great helm, who would stand by the ropes? Or if all dainty fingers their duties might choose, Who would wash up the dishes, and polish the shoes? Suppose every aspirant writing a book Contrived to get published, by hook or by crook; Geologists then of a later creation Would be startled, I fancy, to find a forma- tion Proving how the poor world did most wo- fully sink Beneath mountains of paper, and oceans of ink! Or even suppose all the women were mar- ried; By whom would superfluous babies be car- ried? Where would be the good aunts that should knit all the stockings? Or nurses, to do up the singings and rock- ings? Wise spinsters, to lay down their wonderful rules, And with theories rare to enlighten the fools,-- Or to look after orphans, and primary schools? No! Failure's a part of the infinite plan; Who finds that he can't, must give way to who can; And as one and another drops out of the race, Each stumbles at last to his suitable place. So the great scheme works on,--though, like eggs from the wall, Little single designs to such ruin may fall, That not all the world's might, of its horses or men, Could set their crushed hopes at the sum- mit again. SUNDAY AND MONDAY. "As Tommy Snooks and Bessy Brooks Were walking out one Sunday, Says Tommy Snooks to Bessy Brooks, To-morrow will be Monday." |No doubt you are smiling at such a remark. And thinking poor Snooks but a pitiful spark; But the words have a meaning, worth look- ing for, too, As I'll presently try and demonstrate for you. 'Twas a pity, indeed, in that moment of leisure, To dampen poor Bessy's hebdomadal pleas- ure, Suggesting that close on the beautiful Sun- day Must come all the common-place horrors of Monday; That he to his toiling, and she to her tub, Must turn, and take up with another week's rub; Yet a truth for us all, since the shade of the real Follows fast on the track of each sunny ideal. Now and then we may pause on Life's pleasant oases; But between lie the desert's grim, desolate spaces; And our feet, with all patience, must trav- erse them still, Reaching forward to blessing, through bearing of ill. Yet for Snooks and his Bessy,--for me and for you,-- Comes a Saturday night when the wage will be due; And we'll say to each other, in ecstasy, one day, "To-morrow--the endless to-morrow--is Sunday!" THE MAD HORSE. "There was a mad man, And he had a mad wife, And the children were mad beside; So on a mad horse They all of them got, And madly away did ride." |Sagacious Goose! Fresh wonders yet! "What spell had power to help you get Those seven-leagued spectacles, that see Down to the nineteenth century? "The mad world, and his madder wife!" That, in your earlier time of life,-- Though quite demented now,?t is plain,-- Were sober, grave, and almost sane! And all the tribes, a motley brood Sprung into being since the flood, With their hereditary bent To cerebral bewilderment! If some old ghost, precise and slow, Who died a hundred years ago,-- Always supposing he himself Has lain, meanwhile, upon the shelf,-- Things as they are might only see, Surely his inference would be A simultaneous bursting out Of lunacy the earth about. The world is mad; his wife is mad; The rising generation's madder;" And when a charter can be had, Up to the moon they 'll build a ladder! They caught a horse awhile ago,-- They called him Steam,--but he was slow; After the lightning then they ran, Caught him,--and now they drive the span!--1860. P. S.--1870. The great Pacific railroad's done; They've poured two oceans into one: Two shores with whispering cable tied, And cut a path for ships to ride, Where camel-tracks had used to be, Through desert sands, from sea to sea. _Moon_, quoth I? Faith, they 've _made_ a moon! Leastwise, they 've _thought_ one; * and so soon * E. E. Hale's _Brick Moon_: likewise Jules Verne's _Projectile_. Upon man's whim his stroke succeeds, And turns his dreams into his deeds, Look sharply! for with word and blow, They 'll swing one up before you know! 1882. Why put a double P. S. in? 'T would need a daily bulletin To tell how fast the craze goes on, With Keeley and with Edison; With things to eat, and things to travel,-- Bicycles spinning o'er the gravel,-- Great guns to simplify the fights,-- Suns outshone with electric lights,-- The whisper in the closet stirred In sooth across the housetops heard, And when the airy tangle tires Earth to be veined with throbbing wires. Women to physic and to preach, And help the national bird to screech; One man on Wall-Street curb to stand, With twenty railroads in his hand; Schools for the mass, effecting this, That all may know what most must miss Ah, who so sage that can pretend To pre-sage of such tale the end? I press the limit of my page; So, haply, may this frantic age! ROSES AND DIAMONDS. "Little girl, little girl, where have you been? Gathering roses to give to the queen. Little girl, little girl, what gave she you? She gave me a diamond as big as my shoe." |If the old could share with the young again,-- If worn could borrow of new,-- If faces could wear their roses again. And hearts be sweetened with dew,-- If a child might bring the joy of a child, And give it to us to-day,-- What glory of gem, or what weight of gold Would we think too precious to pay? JACK HORNER. "Little Jack Horner Sat in a corner Eating a Christmas Pie: He put in his thumb, And pulled out a plum, And said, "What a great boy am I!" |Ah, the world hath many a Horner, Who, seated in his corner, Finds a Christmas Pie provided for his thumb: And cries out with exultation, "When successful exploration Doth discover the predestinated plum! Little Jack outgrows his tier, And becometh John, Esquire; And he finds a monstrous pasty ready made, Stuffed with stocks and bonds and bales, Gold, currencies and sales, And all the mixed ingredients of Trade. And again it is his luck To be just in time to pluck, By a clever "operation," from the pie An unexpected." plum"; So he glorifies his thumb, And says, proudly, "What a mighty man am I!" Or perchance, to Science turning, And with weary labor learning All the formulas and phrases that oppress her,-- For the fruit of others' baking So a fresh diploma taking, Comes he forth, a full accredited Profes- sor! Or he's not too nice to mix In the dish of politics; And the dignity of office he puts on; And he feels as big again As a dozen nobler men, While he writes himself the Honorable John! Ah, me, for the poor nation! In her hour of desperation Her worst foe is that unsparing Horner- Thumb! To which War, and Death, and Hate, Right, Policy, and State, Are but pies wherefrom his greed may grasp a plum! Oh, the work was fair and true, But't is riddled through and through. And plundered of its glories everywhere; And before men's cheated eyes Doth the robber triumph rise And magnify itself in all the air. "Why, if even a good man dies, And is welcomed to the skies In the glorious resurrection of the just, They must ruffle it below "With some vain and wretched show, To make each his little mud-pie of the dust! Shall we hint at Lady-Horners, Who in their exclusive corners Think the world is only made of upper- crust? Who in the queer mince-pie That we call Society, Do their dainty fingers delicately thrust; Till, if it come to pass, In the spiced and sugared mass, One should compass,--do n't they call it so?--a _catch_, By the gratulation given It would seem the very heaven Had outdone itself in making such a match! Or the "Woman-Horner, now, Who is raising such a row To prove that Jack's no bigger boy than Jill; And that she wo n't sit by With her little saucer pie, While he from the Great Pasty picks his fill. Jealous-wild to be a sharer In the fruit she thinks the fairer, Flings by all for the swift gaining of her wish; Not discerning in her blindness, How a tender Loving-Kindness Hid the best things in her own rejected dish! O, the world keeps Christmas Day In a queer, perpetual way; Shouting always, w What a great big boy am I!" Yet how many of the crowd Thus vociferating loud, And their honors or pretensions lifting high, Have really, more than Jack, With their boldness or their knack, Had a finger in the _making_ of the Pie? INTY, MINTY. "Inty, minty, Cutey, corn! Apple-seed, Apple-thorn! Wire, brier, Limber lock; Seven geese In a flock, Sit and sing, by the spring; O-u-t, out, and in again." |Inklings and meanings, "Whispers and hints; Sprinklings and gleanings, Shimmers and glints. That's how the light comes Down from the sides; That's how the beauty Is born to our eyes. The seed is within, And the thorn is without: Nature's sweet secret Is guarded about. Yet briers are slender, Locks are but slight, To touch of a genius That searches with light. White by the fountain Sit the calm seven; Unto their joyance Its music is given. The world looketh on, And still wonders in vain, As they go out and in, And find pasture again. DOUBLES AND BUBBLES. "Hey, rub-a-dub! Three maids in a tub! And who do you think was there? The butcher, the baker, The candlestick-maker, And all of them gone to the fair." |Strong hands are in the washing-tubs; Gay heads, the labor scorning, Make holiday between the rubs, And sport of Monday morning. Three maids? That's _your_ arithmetic. The child that met the poet Would still to her own counting stick: "We 're seven; I surely know it!" The boatman ferried over three Across the haunted river; And only guessed it by his fee, And wondered at the giver. And Betsey, Jane, and Mary Ann,-- If more your sense discovers? Well, rub your insight if you can, And reckon up the lovers! Count Jane with her stout cleaver knight, And Betsey with the baker; And Mary Ann in dreamy light Beside the candle-maker. Yet of the six no soul is there, For all your wakened vision! In the charmed circle of the Fair They walk their Fields Elysian! The work goes on by board and bench,-- Hard tax of human sinning,-- But hearts thro' labor-chinks still wrench Some joy of their beginning. In the close limit that confines Our getting and our giving, Unless we read between the lines, What should we do with living? FUNERAL HOLIDAY. "Ding, dong, bell, The cat's in the well! Who put her in? Little John Green. Who pulled her out? Great John Stout!"- |There was never a drama of sorrow But good folks might be found, I'm afraid, Who a queer satisfaction could borrow From the parts of importance they played. There is war for four years in the nation: There are havoc and panic abroad: Comes a tempest; a wild conflagration: Great souls go up home to their God. How the tall I's spring thick in the spell- ing!-- I knew, or I saw, or I said!-- How the small ones turn out to the swelling Each splendor of final parade! How many are left, we may wonder, Heart-mournful for that which befell? How many would wish back the blunder "When the Cat has got into the Well! Nay, more; if with infinite bother And peril, poor Puss is got out, Somehow, one boy seems famous as t' other, John Green is as big as John Stout! See, now! let me tell you a story Of something which happened in sooth; That shows with how fearless a glory The children and simple speak truth. Biddy came to her mistress refulgent; A whole sunrise of smiles on her face; 'With w M'am, could ye be so indulgent Jist to shpare me the day, if ye plase? "It 's me cousin that 's dead,--Kate M'Gawtherin,-- Was married to Barnaby Roach; An' I 'd want,--but I hates to be both- erin',-- Three shillings to pay for the coach!" And so we were minus our dinners; And all that deplorable day We fasted, like penitent sinners, While Biddy the cook was away. But she came when the sunset was gleam- ing; And her story she gleefully told; Disdaining all dolorous seeming, In a way that was good to behold. Each loving and sad recollection Of the late Mrs. Barnaby Roach Quite absorbed in the single reflection That she "wint wid himsel' in the coach!" "For he thrated me, faith, like a lady, An' he paid me me fare, an' ahl; An' he tould me that I, Bridget Brady, Was the charm of the funeral!" DISROBED. "There was a little woman, as I've heard tell, She went to market her eggs for to sell: She went to market all on a market day, And she fell asleep on the king's highway. "There came a little peddler, his name was Stout; He cut off her petticoats round about: He cut off her petticoats up to her knees, And the poor little woman began for to freeze. "She began to shiver, and she began to cry, Lawk-a-mercy on me! sure it is n't I! But if it be I, as I think it ought to be, I 've got a little dog at home, and he knows me!" |I think of a poor, tired Soul, That has trodden, up and down, The tradeways of this busy life, To and from its market town, Till, traffic and toil all past, At the silent close of the day, She lies down, weary and worn, at last, On the king's highway;-- The highway that brings all home, Never a one left out;-- And in her sleep doth a Stranger come Who cuts her garments about. Cuts the life-tatters away, All the old rags and the stain; And leaves the Soul 'twixt her night and day, To waken again. Slowly she wakens, and strange; Strange and scared she doth seem; Marvelling at the mystical change Come over her in her dream. "Where is my life?" she cries, "That which I knew me by? Something is here in an unknown guise: Can it be I? "I wonder if anything is: Or if I am anything: Did ever a Soul come bare as this From its earthward marketing? Let me think down into the past; Bethink me hard in the cold; Find me something to stand by fast; Something to hold!" She thinks away back to the morning, To something she loved and knew; And over her doubt comes dawning Sense of the dear and true. "I do n't know if it be I," she sighs; "But if after all it be, There 's a little heart at home in the skies, And he 'll know me!" JACK AND JILL. "Jack and Jill Went up the hill, To draw a pail of water: Jack fell down And broke his crown, And Jill came tumbling after." |Jack and Jill went up the hill, When the world was young, together. Jack and Jill went up the hill, In Eden ways and weather. She to seek out blessed springs, He to bear the burden: Nature their sole choice of things, Love their only guerdon. That was all the simple creatures knew. Jack and Jill come down the hill, In the world's fall years, together. Jack and Jill come down the hill, And there is stormy weather. 'T is all about the _pail_, you see; The sweet springs are behind them: Empty-handed seemeth she Who only helped to find them. Jill would like to swing a bucket, too. O'er the hillside coming down, Eagerly and proudly, Sparkling trophies to the town To bear, she clamors loudly. But, in face of all the town, Challenging its laughter, Many a Jack comes tumbling down. Shall the Jills come after? _Is_ that what the women want to do? Listen! When on heights of life Hidden pools He planted, God to Adam and his wife Wise division granted. Gave his son the pitcher broad For wealth and weight of water; But the quick divining-rod Confided to his daughter. Ah, if men and women only knew! CASUS BELLI. Impromptu, July, 1870. "The sow came in with the saddle; The little pig rocked the cradle; The dish jumped up on the table To see the pot swallow the ladle; The spit that stood behind the door Threw the pudding-stick on the floor. "Odsplut!" said the gridiron, Can't you agree? I'm the head constable, Bring 'em to me.'" |Spain came in with an empty throne; The little prince rocked his German cradle "No, no," he said; And he shook his head; "I am well content to be let alone." All the dishes on pantry-ledge And shelf, and table, were up on edge, To see how the Pot, Simmering hot, Would foam at the dip of the threatening ladle. Nothing befell for a minute or so, (Nobody chose to be first, you know), Till the royal spit, with an angry frown, Threw a little pudding-stick down. "Odsplut!" shouts Emperor Gridiron, Hissing for a broil, "Those folks that stand behind the door Are getting up a coil! I 've red Fire panting at my feet; I thought how things would be! I?m creation's constable, Bring the world to me!" THE DAYS THAT ARE LONG. "I'll sing you a song Of the days that are long; Of the woodcock and the sparrow; Of the little dog That burnt his tail, And he shall be whipt to-morrow." |That is the song the world sings Of the long bright days: That is the way she evens things, Portions, and pays. The dog that let his tail burn, Proving one pain, Shall be whipt next day, that he may learn Wisdom again. That is the song the world sings To sin and sorrow: Over her limit her hard lash flings Into God's morrow. Measures His dear divine grace In compass narrow: Counts for nothing the infinite days; Forgets the sparrow. The world sings only a half song; Leaves our hearts sore: Heaven, in the time that is tender and long, Will sing us more. THREESCORE AND TEN. "How many miles to Babylon? Threescore and ten. Can I get there by candle-light? Yes, and back again." |How many miles of the weary way? Threescore miles and ten. Where shall I be at the end of the day? Yon shall be back again. You shall prove it all in the lifelong round; The joy, and the pain and the sinning; And at candle-light your soul shall be found Back--at its new beginning. Down in his grave the old man lies; In from the earthward wild, At the open door of Paradise Enters a little child. TWO LITTLE BLACKBIRDS. "Two little blackbirds sat upon a stone; One flew away, and then there was one; The other flew after and then there was none; So the poor stone was left all alone." One of these little birds back again flew; The other came after, and then there were two; Says one to the other, pray, how do you do? Very well, thank you, and, pray, how are you? |A stone is the barest fact: But living and wonderful things Gather to earthly occasion and act With folded or parting wings. Birds of the air are they,-- Our knowledge, our thought, our love,-- And the ethers in which they win their way Are breaths of the heaven above. Some place and point of the hour,-- The same little fact for two,-- Who knoweth the lasting wonder and power It holdeth for me and you; Away in the long-past years, With trifle of merest chance, Keeping, through losing, and blinding, and tears, The key of its circumstance? I, left to the narrowed earth,-- You into the great heaven gone,-- And things of our sharing,--our work, our mirth,-- So lonely to brood upon! Yet ever, when thought recurs, With hardly a reckoning why, To some old, small memory, straightway stirs That sound of wings in the sky; And like birds to a resting-place,-- No longer one, but the two,-- Alight the remembrances, face to face, Alive between me and you; And heaven grows real and dear, And earth widens up to heaven; And all that had vanished, and stayed so near, In one marvellous glimpse is given. For memory is return: Ourselves are what we have been: And what we have been together, we learn Our life doth continue in. Spread, then, the angel wings! I lose you not as you go; Since heart finds heart in the uttermost things Two thoughts may revisit so! TAFFY. 'Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief; Taffy came to my house And stole a piece of beef: I went to Taffy's house, Taffy was n't at home; Taffy came to my house And stole a marrow bone: I went to Taffy's house, Taffy was in bed; I took the marrow bone, And beat about his head." |Old Time came unto my house of clay, And pilfered its pride of flesh away: I knocked at the doors of the years in vain To ask for its goodliness again. Old Time came unto me yet once more, For crueller theft than he thieved before; Stealing the very marrow and bone That the strength of my life was builded on. Old Time! At last thou shalt lie in thy bed, And thy years and days be buried and dead; And the strength of the life to come shall be In the great revenge I will have of thee! MARGERY DAW. "See, saw! Margery Daw Sold her bed, and lay upon straw; Sold her straw, and lay upon dirt; Was n't she a good-for-naught?" |O Margery Daw! Mistress Margery Daw! Not yours the sole lapse that the world ever saw! In precisely such willful gradation I fear me religion and morals and law Go down, step by step, to the dirt through the straw, In the church and the mart and the nation. A yielding of that, and a dropping of this,-- ("With straw fresh and plenty, pray what is amiss? The bed may be wider and cleaner;" ) Ah, that's as you make it, and shake it, you 'll find; And with slumber forgetful, and luxury blind, What you rest in grows meaner and meaner. "In righteousness walking," the Scripture verse goes,-- "They rest in their beds," and find blessed repose; And the beautiful contrary diction Is neither Isaiah's mistake, nor a word At random declared, to be scoffingly heard, But a truth in the freedom of fiction. O Margery Daw! Mistress Margery Daw! It shall always be gospel, what always was law: Some bed-making none may dispense with,-- In dust of the earth, or in heart of the heaven,-- And to soul of mankind shall no Sabbath be given Save that it lies down and contents with. TROUBLED WITH RATS. "Pretty John Watts, We are troubled with rats; Will you drive them out of the house? There are mice, too, in plenty," Who feast in the pantry; But let them stay, And nibble away; What harm in a little brown mouse?" |A curious puzzle haunts The brain of the commentator, Whether John Watts, perchance, Be preacher or legislator. We 're troubled with rats, we cry: And who shall drive out the vermin? Let senate and pulpit try: Urge edict, and scourge with sermon. They steal, they riot, they slay: They are noisy, they are noisome: Mice in the pantry, you say? Ah, those little things are toysome! They only nibble, you see; They only frolic and scamper: What harm can it possibly be A little brown mouse to pamper? They 're not of the race, John Watts! From them we need no protection; They will never develop to rats, By survival or selection. And yet, John Watts! John Watts! Whether in closet or highway, I doubt me that mice and rats _Are_ akin, in some sort of sly way; And as long as the world sins on, That the odds will be but a quibble Between the deeds that are done By brutes that devour--or nibble! "Little Robin Redbreast sat upon a tree; Up went the pussy-cat, down came he: Down came the pussy-cat, away Robin ran; Says little Robin Redbreast, catch me if you can! Little Robin Redbreast hopped upon a spade; Pussy-cat jumped after him, and then he was afraid; Little Robin chirped and sung, and what did pussy say? Pussy said, Me-ow! Me-ow! and Robin flew away." |Little Robin Redbreast sat upon a tree, Heartsome and glad; The cheer of life, in the green of life, what- ever so blithe may be? Fol de roi, de rol, lad! Up went the pussy-cat, and down came he,-- Woe befall for the claws, lad! The care of life, and the fear of life, it creepeth so stealthily,-- So threatsome and sad! And woe befall for the claws, lad! Down came the pussy-cat, away Robin ran, In his scarlet clad; There may be a day for running away, for redcoated bird or man. Fol de roi, de rol, lad! Says little Robin Redbreast, Catch me if you can! Two merry legs to the four, lad! A quick, bold pair, that scampers fair, is part of the saving plan, And a match for the pad Aprowl on the pitiless four, lad! Little Robin Redbreast hopped upon a spade; This is n't so bad! All of leafy green, and for joy, I ween, the world was never made. Fol de roi, de rol, lad! Pussy-cat jumped after him, and then he was afraid; Ah, what's the use of all, lad? There 's death in our work, there's fear to lurk in the places where we played. What help 's to be had? And what is the use of all, lad? Little Robin chirped and sung, the same brave roundelay; There's room to be glad! There's always a light behind the night; there's never a will but a way; Fol de roi, de rol, lad! Little Robin chirped and sung, and what did pussy say? Creeping, and stretching the claws, lad? Pussy said, O-w! P-shaw i Me-ow! for Robin was off and away. There's wings to be had! And fol de rol for the claws, lad! "When I was a bachelor, I lived by myself, And all the bread and cheese I got I put upon a shelf. The rats and the mice, they made such a strife, I was forced to go to London to get me a wife. The streets were so broad, and the lanes were so nar- row I was forced to bring my wife home in a wheelbarrow. The wheelbarrow broke, and my wife had a fall, Down came wheelbarrow, wife, and all." |Of course it did. Whatever could you pos- sibly expect, sir? You chose a quite peculiar style to cherish and protect, sir! Your resource in emergency commands my admiration, But I wonder was it want--or excess--of calculation, That the wheelbarrow broke? The one-wheeled way gave out, you say? Indeed, I should have guessed so, From the very frank preamble of your pre- cious manifesto! When all the bread and cheese you got you shut up in your closet, Driving such single-blessed team, what strange amazement was it That your wheelbarrow broke? You were managing quite finely till the rats and mice got at it, And forced you to the slow resolve, how- e'er you might combat it With other prompting, that a wife must be your choice of crosses In a world of moth and rust and thieves, and all provoking losses? Yes,--the wheelbarrow broke. When the scramble and the screed began, you fain would share your trouble, But in no other sense, it seems, arrange for going double; The generous thoroughfares of life were too wide for your barrow, And the single footpath in the lane you plodded was too narrow For a couple in a yoke. The old plan was a careful one; but it could never carry New needs; you should have thought of that before you thought to marry; And still you strove to push it through, with many a frown and grumble, Till the poor little wife and all had got a dreadful tumble, When the wheelbarrow broke. Broke midway in the struggle: a providen- tial mystery: The usual meek accounting for of such mis- handled history: As if it were the method of the wisdom and the glory To run the earth on one wheel,--and each small earthly story,-- Till the wheelbarrow broke! Ah, friend! of God's mechanics you mistake the grand solution; On no weak, single centre runs the perfect revolution; But one circuit round the sun,--one self- circling for the planet,-- And one divine consent of both,--so first the power began it, And creation was bespoke. Be sure you must in everything waste hope and love and labor, Moving cheaply by yourself,--nowise greatly with your neighbor. Cease, then, with such ill-balance in the ways of life to wraxle, And put an equal-turning wheel on each end of your axle, Since your wheelbarrow 's broke! THE FOOTPATH WAY. "Jog on, jog on, the footpath way, And merrily jump the stile, O! A merry heart goes all the day, Your sad one tires in a mile, O!" |Who goes to-day by the footpath way, When with ocean leagues the steamships play, And under mountains and over plains Runs the level thunder of the trains? Who goes to-day by the footpath way, When the very babies despise great A, And swallow, with supercilious smiles, Whole sentences, like young crocodiles? Who goes to-day by the footpath way, Waiting for good things until he can pay, When with mortgage and loan and instal- ment plan, Life is let furnished to every man? Who goes to-day by the footpath way, When Moses made awful mistakes, they say, And the story of all that began and is Never happened according to Genesis? Who goes to-day by the footpath way, Alone and straitened, with care and de- lay, When the world, grown wiser by grace of God, Rolls assured toward heaven on the cause- way broad? . When things are thus since they must be so, And nobody stands by himself, you know, And none may jog onward, and none may fall But by force that prevails in the general? And what are the odds of tear or smile, Or whether we merrily leap the stile Or tumble helpless, since over we must, And the end of all is the "dust to dust?" Well,--take it so; yet the footpath way Doth its line through every thoroughfare lay; The tramp of the legion may seem to efface, But the single treading hath left its trace. You may rush by steam with a seven-league stride, Yet the footpath way's in the railroad ride; Each goes his own gait, and clears his own stiles, And lives by inches, while driven by miles. You may scorn your penny, and spend your pound, No less't will appear, when the day comes round, That farthing by farthing the score was made, And unto the uttermost shall be paid. And Moses will stand when philosophies drop, And Huxley and Darwin have shut up shop; For whatever you jump, and however you jog, You can't get away from the decalogue. Then with faith and fear in the footpath way, And with steadfast cheer, trudge on, we say; For if ever earth into the kingdom rolls, 'T will be by the saving of single souls! UP A TREE. "Oh dear, what can the matter be? Two old women got up in an apple-tree: One came down, And the other stayed up till Saturday." |I suppose you wonder how it should be That two old ladies got up in a tree: Did you never chance the exploit to see? Perhaps you have noticed pussy-cat go, With a wrathful look, and a way not slow, And a tail very big, and a back up-- so? [Illustration: 0195] Well, that is the type of the thing I mean; And the apple-bearer, since earth was green, The tree of our trouble hath always been. So when "human warious" fails to agree, There stands the old stem of iniquity, And one or both will be "up a tree." Each in her style: some are stately and stiff; Some hiss and spit, and are up in a whiff; And some hunch along in a moody miff. It does n't much matter, however it be; The best of people may get up the tree; The question is, when they 'll come down, you see! An offenseless one will descend straightway; One half in the wrong for a while may stay; Clear curstness will roost till the judgment day! THE CROOKED MAN. "There was a crooked man, And he went a crooked mile; He found a crooked sixpence Against a crooked stile: He bought a crooked cat, Which caught a crooked mouse; And they all lived together In a little crooked house." |Once begin with a crook, You 'll go on with a crook; Crooked ways, crooked luck, crooked peo- ple. Crooked eyes, crooked mind, Crooked guideposts will find; Yes, a crook in the very church-steeple! The first mile you make The initial will take For all the long leagues that shall follow: Right and left, fork and swerve, Any turn that will serve, Up and down, betwixt hummock and hol- low. If you pause at a stile Or a fence for a while, Some twist must compel or invite you: Even sin, I've a doubt, Were it straight out and out, Could hardly persuade or delight you. And a shave, or a bend, Or a nick, must commend, For you, every quarter and nickel: Right pure from the mint, There were no magic in't Your trick-loving finger to tickle. Crooked money will buy But a crook or a lie, Whatever the ware that you deal in Your position in life, Your companions, your wife, Or even a playfellow feline And as thief catches thief In the common belief, Be the creature a cat or a woman, The crooked shall still Find the crooked at will, And you 'll see the old saw sayeth true, man. In kin, neighbors, house, In a servant or mouse, She will always put paw on her likeness: The same rule runs through, For the false and the true,-- Straight to straight, and oblique to oblique- ness. So together, you see, As you build, you shall be, Every line of the mould in the casting; And a nice little world You 'll have made, when you 've curled And squirmed to your state everlasting! THE FOUR WINDS. "When the wind is in the east, 'T is neither good for man nor beast; When the wind is in the north, The skillful fisher goes not forth; When the wind is in the south, It blows the bait in the fishes' mouth; When the wind is in the west, Then't is at the very best." |Life, like the earth, to the east doth run, Turning her face to the face of the sun. The wind that is contrary, as she goes, Is always the bitterest wind that blows; Smiting the kiss of the shining away, And beating backward the beautiful day. The wind that comes from the icy pole Shutteth up hope in the human soul; Chiding the heart, and forbidding the will, And blasting our very beginnings with ill. Oh, the wind of the north, on its terrible path, Is the wind of wreck, and despair, and wrath! The breath that blows from the climes of ease, From the isles of spice and the bread-fruit trees, With its unearned flavors to fill the mouth; The zephyr that sends from the idle south Its soft beguiling and treacherous touch,-- Let the soul in her struggle be shy of such! But the wind that springs from the hind- ward side, And as earth rolls under sweeps over the tide; The gust that is vigorous, brave, and true, Backing you up in whatever you do, Keen and impelling, the wind of the west,-- Ah, well saith the legend, that breeze is the best. THE PIPER AND THE COW. "There was a piper had a cow, And he had naught to give her: So he took up his pipes, and he played her a tune, Consider, cow,--consider! The cow considered very well, And gave the piper a penny; And bade him play the other tune,-- Corn-rigs are bonny." |Good folks of the pen, I am sure you 'll agree That author and publisher here we may see: The Piper plays tunes 'twixt the world and the Cow, And he has, at the same time, the care of the mow: When the crop in the barn shows but little to feed her, To the Cow quoth the Piper, Consider, con- sider! The Cow is a creature that cheweth the cud; Recalleth the hill-sides, with daisies be- stud, The sweet running waters, the breezes at play, While mournfully munching the last lock of hay: All the world that she knoweth of fra- grance and stir Sealeth up in those dry stems its juices for her. So it cometh, forsooth, that because she can chew People think it is all she can hunger to do: Neither Public nor Piper doth fully allow For the interdependence of mood and of mow, Or see how perplexing it may be, alas, For a Oow to consider between hay and grass! Howbeit, if Mooly considereth well, And giveth the Piper good milk for to sell, The Piper he maketh his own modest penny,-- Just one at a time, till he hath a great many; And during the while this is coming to pass Fresh fodder grows plenty, and delicate grass. Once more life's a pasture; the season is June; The pipes play up cheerly the bonny-rig tune; The Cow is in clover; the buttercups hold Right up to her chin their probation of gold; But she knows, all the same, how't will be when they bid her The next year, as last year, Consider, con- sider! BEHIND THE LOG. "Pussy sits behind the log; how can she be fair? Then comes in the little dog: Pussy, are you there? So, so, dear mistress pussy, pray tell me how you do! I thank you, little dog, I am very well just now." |Behind the log, in the reek and mould, How many poor things are there, Who else might be sought, and caressed, and told, So tenderly, they were fair! Behind the log, ah, behind the log, Such only can tell us how They are glad of a word from a little dog Who pauses to say Bow-wow! [Illustration: 0211] SHOE AND FIDDLE. "Cock-a-doodle-doo! My dame has lost her shoe; My master's lost his fiddlestick, And does n't know what to do." Who's crowing, I wonder, to spread such a scandal Of the blithe-tripping dame who hath dropped off her sandal, And seemeth all sad and forlornly to shirk, Where she used, in good hmnor, to dance at her work? Perhaps honest chanticleer simply may glory In faithfully giving both sides of the story; And scorning the loss of the lady to tell Without owning the miss of the master as well. For how, when the fiddlestick 's gone, can be played The music, without which the dancing is stayed? When the man 's out of tune, the dear woman, 't is plain, Must wait till he graciously strikes up again. Let him hunt for his bow, then, and rosin it too, (If really he'd like to be told what to do;) And I think, with the fiddling, 't will surely be found All else will come right for the merry-go- round! SWING, SWONG! "Swing, Swong! The days are long! Up hill, and down dale; Butter is made in every vale." |Your day will come, though it arrive but slowly; There 's cream in all life, set however lowly; And if, as Goose philosophy, you doubt it, Hear what the little hen found out about it:-- "Kroo! kroo! I've cramp in my legs, Sitting so long atop of my eggs; Never a minute for rest to snatch; I wonder when they are going to hatch! Cluck! cluck! listen! sleep! Down in the nest there's a stir and a peep. Everything comes to its luck some day; I've got chickens! What will folks say?" SHUTTLECOCK. "Here we go up, up, up, And here we go down, down, downy; Here we go backward and forward, And here we go round, round, roundy." |Battledore and shuttlecock! Hither, and thither, and yon: Never a flight without a knock, And so the world goes on. Shuttlecock and battledore! When will it all be done,-- The life of the buffet and beat be o'er, And the life of the wings begun? THE MAN IN THE WILDERNESS. "The man in the wilderness, he asked me How many strawberries grew in the sea: I answered him, as I thought good, As many red herrings as grew in the wood." |Of the face of the world they have found it out By what they must fetch and do; Of the heart of the world they dispute and doubt, And yet it is just as true. Your fish is wholesome, and live, and clean, And my little fruit is fair; Though the earth's good Maker might never mean That both should be everywhere. And all for the want of a thought like this, It comes, and it can but be, That many a soul 's in the wilderness, And many adrift at sea. PRAE AND POST. "The man in the moon Came down too soon To inquire the way to Norwich; The man in the south, He burnt his mouth With eating cold plum porridge." |The moony men are always in a hurry That puts sedater people in a flurry, They get their theories through other media Than facts of gazetteer or cyclopaedia; And then, by some unknown, preposterous gateway, Rush forth to claim the realizing straight- way. Just think of lighting on a foreign planet, Asking for Norwich before folks began it! But then, those sleepy souls at the equator Lose just as much, you see, by starting later; Never strike in while anything is hot,-- Wait till the porridge is all out o' the pot;-- And through their indolence and easy fool- ing Burn their mouths, figuratively, in the cool- ing! Too soon, too slow, there's nothing comes out even; The very sun that travels through the heaven Heels o'er the line, now this way and now that, And only twice a year can hit it pat. Even your two eyes make a parallax, And might mislead you on two different tracks; Between them both, the moral, I suppose, Is that each man should follow his own nose! QUITE CONTRARY. "Mistress Mary, quite contrary, How does your garden grow? With silver bells, and cockle shells, And tulips, all of a row." |Prithee, tell me, Mistress Mary, Whence this rhyme of "quite contrary"? Why should Mother Goose, beholding All these pleasant blooms unfolding,-- Every prim and pretty border Standing in such shining order,-- Looking o'er the lovely rows, Ask you "how your garden grows"? Mary, so precise and chary, Are you, anyhow, contrary? While these sweetly perfect lines Nod their gentle countersigns, Spending all your strength on this, Lest the least thing grow amiss, Weareth some unseen parterre Quite a different kind of air? Through your hating of a weed Runs there any ill to seed,-- Thistle-blow of petulance, Bitter blade of blame, perchance, Or a flaunting stem of pride, In that other garden-side? Mary, in our women-hearts Spring such curious counterparts! Each her home-plot watching wary, Lest the faultless order vary By the dropping of a leaf, Or a blossom come to grief From the blasting of the storm, Or the eating of a worm, Let us both be certain, Mary, Nothing dearer goes contrary! ALONG, LONG, LONG. "As I was going along, long, long, A singing a comical song, song, song, The lane that I went was so long, long, long, And the song that I sung was so long, long, long, And so I went singing along." |It 's all along, and along, For the earth is bonny, and glad, and wide, And we 're free to wander, and free to bide, And we travel with a song. It's long, it's wearily long! For the path is narrowed to only a lane; And we 've sung it over and over again, That old, monotonous song. Nay, let us be thankful and strong, That the breath of life is as long as the day, And the song is as long as the weariful way, And so, we 'll go singing along! FINIS. _(MOTHER GOOSE, INTERLINEATED.)_ |The white dove sat on the castle wall, I bent my bow, and shoot her I shall,"-- (The fair bird, truth, and her meanings;) "I put her in my glove, both feathers and all;" (The pretty plumes that her flight let fall; For I bound in a book my gleanings:) "I laid my bridle upon the shelf,-- If you want any more, you may sing it yourself!" (It's all in the wits and the weenings!) CONCLUSION. _(EDITORIAL.)_ |Doubtless I might go on to quote, With added paraphrase and note, Precept on precept, line on line, To instance here the fact divine That of her children, far and wide, Wisdom is always justified. Yet why oppress with proof of that, Since "verbum sapienti sat"? Suffice it to have struck the vein, And shown some specimens of ore; If any seek for further gain, The mine still holds abundance more. A mental pickaxe and a biggin Are all you need to go to diggin'. For, as the Swedish seer contends, All things comprise an inner sense; There's nothing we can write or say, In howsoever simple way, But seems a body, built to hide The soul that straightway is supplied; And many a fool, and prophet too, Hath spoken wiser than he knew. One parting word, and I am gone: If I 've prevailed to make you see These things as they appear to me, Then have I proved my Goose a Swan And I, small fledgling of the line, Yet proud to bear the ancient name, May, for this ancestress of mine, Claim place upon the page of fame; That not a bard of Saxon tongue More true to nature ever sung: More surely soothed, more deeply taught, Or passing fact more keenly caught; And that--exalted side by side With him of Avon, in the pride And love of millions--we should lay The tribute at her feet to-day That owns her, in this latter age, Goose, truly,--but, in savor, Sage! End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Mother Goose for Grown Folks, by Mrs. A. D. T. 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