Verses for Children Part 5

BIG SMITH.

Are you a Giant, great big man, or is your real name Smith?

Nurse says you've got a hammer that you hit bad children with.

I'm good to-day, and so I've come to see if it is true That you can turn a red-hot rod into a horse's shoe.

Why do you make the horses' shoes of iron instead of leather?

Is it because they are allowed to go out in bad weather?

If horses should be shod with iron, Big Smith, will you shoe mine?

For now I may not take him out, excepting when it's fine.

Although he's not a real live horse, I'm very fond of him; His harness won't take off and on, but still it's new and trim.

His tail is hair, he has four legs, but neither hoofs nor heels; I think he'd seem more like a horse without these yellow wheels.

They say that Dapple-grey's not yours, but don't you wish he were?

My horse's coat is only paint, but his is soft grey hair; His face is big and kind, like yours, his forelock white as snow-- Shan't you be sorry when you've done his shoes and he must go?

I do so wish, Big Smith, that I might come and live with you; To rake the fire, to heat the rods, to hammer two and two.

To be so black, and not to have to wash unless I choose; To pat the dear old horses, and to mend their poor old shoes.

When all the world is dark at night, you work among the stars, A s.h.i.+ning shower of fireworks beat out of red-hot bars.

I've seen you beat, I've heard you sing, when I was going to bed; And now your face and arms looked black, and now were glowing red.

The more you work, the more you sing, the more the bellows roar; The falling stars, the flying sparks, stream s.h.i.+ning more and more.

You hit so hard, you look so hot, and yet you never tire; It must be very nice to be allowed to play with fire.

I long to beat and sing and s.h.i.+ne, as you do, but instead I put away my horse, and Nurse puts me away to bed.

I wonder if you go to bed; I often think I'll keep Awake and see, but, though I try, I always fall asleep.

I know it's very silly, but I sometimes am afraid Of being in the dark alone, especially in bed.

But when I see your forge-light come and go upon the wall, And hear you through the window, I am not afraid at all.

I often hear a trotting horse, I sometimes hear it stop; I hold my breath--you stay your song--it's at the blacksmith's shop.

Before it goes, I'm apt to fall asleep, Big Smith, it's true; But then I dream of hammering that horse's shoes with you!

KIT'S CRADLE.

They've taken the cosy bed away That I made myself with the Shetland shawl, And set me a hamper of scratchy hay, By that great black stove in the entrance-hall.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

I won't sleep there; I'm resolved on that!

They may think I will, but they little know There's a soft persistence about a cat That even a little kitten can show.

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

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

I've found a crib where they won't find me, Though they're crying "Kitty!" all over the house.

Hunt for the Slipper! and riddle-my-ree!

A cat can keep as still as a mouse.

It's rather unwise perhaps to purr, But they'll never think of the wardrobe-shelves.

I'm happy in every hair of my fur; They may keep the hamper and hay themselves.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE MILL STREAM.

One of a hundred little rills-- Born in the hills, Nourished with dews by the earth, and with tears by the sky, Sang--"Who so mighty as I?

The farther I flow The bigger I grow.

I, who was born but a little rill, Now turn the big wheel of the mill, Though the surly slave would rather stand still.

Old, and weed-hung, and grim, I am not afraid of him; For when I come running and dance on his toes, With a creak and a groan the monster goes.

And turns faster and faster, As he learns who is master, Round and round, Till the corn is ground, And the miller smiles as he stands on the bank, And knows he has me to thank.

Then when he swings the fine sacks of flour, I feel my power; But when the children enjoy their food, I know I'm not only great but good!"

Furthermore sang the brook-- "Who loves the beautiful, let him look!

Garlanding me in shady spots The Forget-me-nots Are blue as the summer sky: Who so lovely as I?

My King-cups of gold s.h.i.+ne from the shade of the alders old, Stars of the stream!-- At the water-rat's threshold they gleam.

From below The Frog-bit spreads me its blossoms of snow, And in ma.s.ses The Willow-herb, the flags, and the gra.s.ses, Reeds, rushes, and sedges, Flower and fringe and feather my edges.

To be beautiful is not amiss, But to be loved is more than this; And who more sought than I, By all that run or swim or crawl or fly?

Sober sh.e.l.l-fish and frivolous gnats, Tawny-eyed water-rats; The poet with rippling rhymes so fluent, Boys with boats playing truant, Cattle wading knee-deep for water; And the flower-plucking parson's daughter.

Down in my depths dwell creeping things Who rise from my bosom on rainbow wings, For--too swift for a school-boy's prize-- Hither and thither above me dart the prismatic-hued dragon-flies.

At my side the lover lingers, And with lack-a-daisical fingers, The Weeping Willow, woe-begone, Strives to stay me as I run on."

There came an hour When all this beauty and love and power Did seem But a small thing to that Mill Stream.

And then his cry Was, "Why, oh! why Am I thus surrounded With checks and limits, and bounded By bank and border To keep me in order, Against my will?

I, who was born to be free and unfettered--a mountain rill!

But for these jealous banks, the good Of my gracious and fertilizing flood Might spread to the barren highways, And fill with Forget-me-nots countless neglected byways.

Why should the rough-barked Willow for ever lave Her feet in my cooling wave; When the tender and beautiful Beech Faints with midsummer heat in the meadow just out of my reach?

Could I but rush with unchecked power, The miller might grind a day's corn in an hour.

And what are the ends Of life, but to serve one's friends?"

A day did dawn at last, When the spirits of the storm and the blast, Breaking the bands of the winter's frost and snow, Swept from the mountain source of the stream, and flooded the valley below.

Dams were broken and weirs came down; Cottage and mill, country and town, Shared in the general inundation, And the following desolation.

Then the Mill Stream rose in its might, And burst out of bounds to left and to right, Rushed to the beautiful Beech, In the meadow far out of reach.

But with such torrents the poor tree died, Torn up by the roots, and laid on its side.

The cattle swam till they sank, Trying to find a bank.