Verses for Children Part 4

"Yet when the storm is loudest, At deep midnight I dream, And up and down upon the lea To chase the wind I seem; While by my side, in feathered cap, There runs the Fairy King, And down below, Beneath the snow, We hear the Blue-bells ring-- D!

DI! DIN!

DING!

Such happy dreams they bring!"

AN ONLY CHILD'S TEA-PARTY.

When I go to tea with the little Smiths, there are eight of them there, but there's only one of me, Which makes it not so easy to have a fancy tea-party as if there were two or three.

I had a tea-party on my birthday, but Joe Smith says it can't have been a regular one, Because as to a tea-party with only one teacup and no teapot, sugar-basin, cream-jug, or slop-basin, he never heard of such a thing under the sun.

But it was a very big teacup, and quite full of milk and water, and, you see, There wasn't anybody there who could really drink milk and water except Towser and me.

The dolls can only pretend, and then it washes the paint off their lips, And what Charles the canary drinks isn't worth speaking of, for he takes such very small sips.

Joe says a kitchen-chair isn't a table; but it has got four legs and a top, so it would be if the back wasn't there; And that does for Charles to perch on, and I have to put the Prince of Wales to lean against it, because his legs have no joints to sit on a chair.

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That's the small doll. I call him the Prince of Wales because he's the eldest son, you see; For I've taken him for my brother, and he was Mother's doll before I was born, so of course he is older than me.

Towser is my real live brother, but I don't think he's as old as the Prince of Wales; He's a perfect darling, though he whisks everything over he comes near, and I tell him I don't know what we should do if we all had tails.

His hair curls like mine in front, and grows short like a lion behind, but no one need be frightened, for he's as good as good; And as to roaring like a real menagerie lion, or eating people up, I don't believe he would if he could.

He has his tea out of the saucer after I've had mine out of the cup; You see I am sure to leave some for him, but if I let him begin first he would drink it all up.

The big doll G.o.dmamma gave me this birthday, and the chair she gave me the year before.

(I haven't many toys, but I take great care of them, and every birthday I shall have more and more.) You've no idea what a beautiful doll she is, and when I pinch her in the middle, she can squeak; It quite frightened Towser, for he didn't know that any of us but he and I and Charles were able to speak.

I've taken her for my only sister, for of course I may take anybody I choose; I've called her Cinderella, because I'm so fond of the story, and because she's got real shoes.

I don't feel so _only_ now there are so many of us; for, counting Cinderella there are five,-- She, and I, and Towser, and Charles, and the Prince of Wales--and three of us are really alive; And four of us can speak, and I'm sure the Prince of Wales is wonderful for his size; For his things (at least he's only got one thing) take off and on, and, though he's nothing but wood, he's got real gla.s.s eyes.

And perhaps in three birthdays more there may be as many of us as the Smiths, for five and three make eight; I shall be seven years old then (as old as Joe), but I don't like to think too much of it, it's so long to wait.

And after all I don't know that I want any more of us: I think I'd rather my sister had a chair Like mine; and the next year I should like a collar for Towser if it wouldn't rub off his hair.

And it would be very nice if the Prince of Wales could be dressed like a Field-marshal, for he's got nothing on his legs; And Cinderella's beautifully dressed, and Towser looks quite as if he'd got a fur coat on when he begs.

Joe says it's perfectly absurd, and that I can't take a Pomeranian in earnest for my brother; But I don't think he really and truly knows how much Towser and I love each other.

I didn't like his saying, "Well, there's one thing about your lot,--you can always have your own way."

And then he says, "You can't possibly have fun with four people when you have to pretend what they say."

But, whatever he says, I don't believe I shall ever enjoy a tea-party more than the one that we had on that day.

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PAPA POODLE.

Can any one look so wise, and have so little in his head?

How long will it be, Papa Poodle, before you have learned to read?

You were called Papa Poodle because you took care of me when I was a baby: And now I can read words of three syllables, and you sit with a book before you like a regular gaby.

You've not read a word since I put you in that corner ten minutes ago; Bill and I've fought the battle of Waterloo since dinner, and you've not learned BA BE BI BO.

Here am I doing the whole British Army by myself, for Bill is obliged to be the French; And I've come away to hear you say your lesson, and left Bill waiting for me in the trench.

And there you sit, with a curly white wig, like the Lord Chief Justice, and as grave a face, Looking the very picture of goodness and wisdom, when you're really in the deepest disgrace.

Those woolly locks of yours grow thicker and thicker, Papa Poodle.

Does the wool tangle inside as well as outside your head? and is it that which makes you such a noodle?

You seem so clever at some things, and so stupid at others, and I keep wondering why; But I'm afraid the truth is, Papa Poodle, that you're uncommonly sly.

You did no spelling-lessons last week, for you were out from morning till night, Except when you slunk in, like a dirty door-mat on legs, and with one ear bleeding from a fight, Looking as if you'd no notion what o'clock it was, and had come home to see.

But _your watch keeps very good meal-time_, Papa Poodle, for you're always at breakfast, and dinner, and tea.

No, it's no good your shaking hands and licking me with your tongue,--I know you can do that; But sitting up, and giving paws, and kissing, won't teach you to spell C A T, Cat.

I wonder, if I let you off lessons, whether I could teach you to pull the string with your teeth, and fire our new gun?

If I could, you might be the Artillery all to yourself, and it would be capital fun.

You wag your tail at that, do you? You would like it a great deal better?

But I can't bear you to be such a dunce, when you look so wise; and yet I don't believe you'll ever learn a letter.

Aunt Jemima is going to make me a new c.o.c.ked hat out of the next old newspaper, for I want to have a review; But the newspaper after that, Papa Poodle, must be kept to make a fool's cap for you.

GRANDMOTHER'S SPRING.

"In my young days," the grandmother said (Nodding her head, Where cap and curls were as white as snow), "In my young days, when we used to go Rambling, Scrambling; Each little dirty hand in hand, Like a chain of daisies, a comical band Of neighbours' children, seriously straying, Really and truly going a-Maying, My mother would bid us linger, And lifting a slender, straight forefinger, Would say-- 'Little Kings and Queens of the May, Listen to me!

If you want to be Every one of you very good In that beautiful, beautiful, beautiful wood, Where the little birds' heads get so turned with delight, That some of them sing all night: Whatever you pluck, Leave some for good luck; Picked from the stalk, or pulled up by the root, From overhead, or from underfoot, Water-wonders of pond or brook; Wherever you look, And whatever you find-- Leave something behind: Some for the Naads, Some for the Dryads, And a bit for the Nixies, and the Pixies.'"

"After all these years," the grandame said, Lifting her head, "I think I can hear my mother's voice Above all other noise, Saying, 'Hearken, my child!

There is nothing more destructive and wild, No wild bull with his horns, No wild-briar with clutching thorns, No pig that routs in your garden-bed, No robber with ruthless tread, More reckless and rude, And wasteful of all things lovely and good, Than a child, with the face of a boy and the ways of a bear, Who _doesn't care;_ Or some little ignorant minx Who _never thinks_.

Now I never knew so stupid an elf, That he couldn't think and care for himself.

Oh, little sisters and little brothers, Think for others, and care for others!

And of all that your little fingers find, Leave something behind, For love of those that come after: Some, perchance, to cool tired eyes in the moss that stifled your laughter!

Pluck, children, pluck!

But leave--for good luck-- Some for the Naads, And some for the Dryads, And a bit for the Nixies, and the Pixies!'"

"We were very young," the grandmother said, Smiling and shaking her head; "And when one is young, One listens with half an ear, and speaks with a hasty tongue; So with shouted Yeses, And promises sealed with kisses, Hand-in-hand we started again, A chubby chain, Stretching the whole wide width of the lane; Or in broken links of twos and threes, For greater ease Of rambling, And scrambling, By the stile and the road, That goes to the beautiful, beautiful wood; By the brink of the gloomy pond, To the top of the sunny hill beyond, By hedge and by ditch, by marsh and by mead, By little byways that lead To mysterious bowers; Or to spots where, for those who know, There grow, In certain out-o'-way nooks, rare ferns and uncommon flowers.

There were flowers everywhere, Censing the summer air, Till the giddy bees went rolling home To their honeycomb, And when we smelt at our posies, The little fairies inside the flowers rubbed coloured dust on our noses, Or p.r.i.c.ked us till we cried aloud for snuffing the dear dog-roses.

But above all our noise, I kept thinking I heard my mother's voice.

But it may have been only a fairy joke, For she was at home, and I sometimes thought it was really the flowers that spoke.

From the Foxglove in its pride, To the Shepherd's Purse by the bare road-side; From the snap-jack heart of the Starwort frail, To meadows full of Milkmaids pale, And Cowslips loved by the nightingale.

Rosette of the ta.s.selled Hazel-switch, Sky-blue star of the ditch; Dandelions like mid-day suns; Bindweed that runs; b.u.t.ter and Eggs with the gaping lips, Sweet Hawthorn that hardens to haws, and Roses that die into hips; Lords-with-their-Ladies cheek-by-jowl, In purple surcoat and pale-green cowl; Family groups of Primroses fair; Orchids rare; Velvet Bee-orchis that never can sting, b.u.t.terfly-orchis which never takes wing, Robert-the-Herb with strange sweet scent, And crimson leaf when summer is spent: Cl.u.s.tering neighbourly, All this gay company, Said to us seemingly-- 'Pluck, children, pluck!

But leave some for good luck: Some for the Naads, Some for the Dryads, And a bit for the Nixies, and the Pixies,'"

"I was but a maid," the grandame said, "When my mother was dead; And many a time have I stood.

In that beautiful wood, To dream that through every woodland noise, Through the cracking Of twigs and the bending of bracken, Through the rustling Of leaves in the breeze, And the bustling Of dark-eyed, tawny-tailed squirrels flitting about the trees, Through the purling and trickling cool Of the streamlet that feeds the pool, I could hear her voice.

Should I wonder to hear it? Why?

Are the voices of tender wisdom apt to die?

And now, though I'm very old, And the air, that used to feel fresh, strikes chilly and cold, On a sunny day when I potter About the garden, or totter To the seat from whence I can see, below, The marsh and the meadows I used to know, Bright with the bloom of the flowers that blossomed there long ago; Then, as if it were yesterday, I fancy I hear them say-- 'Pluck, children, pluck, But leave some for good luck; Picked from the stalk, or pulled up by the root, From overhead, or from underfoot, Water-wonders of pond or brook; Wherever you look, And whatever your little fingers find, Leave something behind: Some for the Naads, And some for the Dryads, And a bit for the Nixies, and the Pixies.'"

The following note was given in _Aunt Judy's Magazine_, June 1880, when "Grandmother's Spring" first appeared:--"It may interest old readers of _Aunt Judy's Magazine_ to know that 'Leave some for the Naads and the Dryads' was a favourite phrase with Mr. Alfred Gatty, and is not merely the charge of an imaginary mother to her 'blue-eyed banditti.' Whether my mother invented the expression for our benefit, or whether she only quoted it, I do not know. I only remember its use as a check on the indiscriminate 'collecting' and 'grubbing' of a large family; a mystic warning not without force to fetter the same fingers in later life, with all the power of a pious tradition."--J.H.E.

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