The Adventures of A Brownie Part 9

And such a kind husband! how early and late He would sit at the top of the old garden gate, And sing, just as merry as if it were June, Being ne'er out of patience, or temper, or tune.

"So unlike those Rooks, dear; from morning till night They seem to do nothing but quarrel and fight, And wrangle and jangle, and plunder--while we Sit, honest and safe, in our pretty thorn-tree."

Just while she was speaking, a lively young Rook Alit with a flap that the thorn-bush quite shook, And seizing a stick from the nest--"Come, I say, That will just suit me, neighbor"--flew with it away The lady loud twittered--her husband soon heard: Though peaceful, he was not a cowardly bird; And with arguments angry enough to o'erwhelm A whole Rookery--flew to the top of the elm.

"How dare you, you--" (thief he was going to say; But a civiller sentiment came in the way: For he knew 'tis no good, and it anyhow shames A gentleman, calling strange gentlemen names:) "Pray what is your motive, Sir Rook, for such tricks, As building your mansion with other folks' sticks?

I request you'll restore them, in justice and law."

At which the whole colony set up a--caw!

But Blackbird, not silenced, then spoke out again; "I've built my small nest with much labor and pain.

I'm a poor singing gentleman, Sirs, it is true, Though c.o.c.kneys do often mistake me for you; But I keep Mrs. Blackbird, and four little eggs, And neither e'er pilfers, or borrows, or begs.

Now have I not right on my side, do you see?"

But they flew at and pecked him all down the elm-tree.

Ah! wickedness prospers sometimes, I much fear; And virtue's not always victorious, that's clear: At least, not at first: for it must be confessed Poor Blackbird lost many a stick from his nest; And his unkind grand neighbors with scoffing caw-caws, In his voice and his character found many flaws, And jeered him and mocked him; but when they'd all done, He flew to his tree and sang cheerily on.

At length May arrived with her garlands of leaves; The swallows were building beneath the farm-eaves, Wrens, linnets, and sparrows, on every hedge-side, Were bringing their families out with great pride; While far above all, on the tallest tree-top, With a flutter and clamor that never did stop, The haughty old Rooks held their heads up so high, And dreamed not of trouble--until it drew nigh!

One morning at seven, as he came with delight To his wife's pretty parlor of may-blossoms white, Having fed all his family ere rise of sun,-- Mr. Blackbird perceived--a big man with a gun; Who also perceived him: "See, Charlie, among That may, sits the Blackbird we've heard for so long: Most likely his nest's there--how frightened he looks!

Nay, Blackie, we're not come for you, but the Rooks."

I don't say 'twas cruel--I can't say 'twas kind-- On the subject I haven't quite made up my mind: But those guns went pop-popping all morning, alas!

And young Rooks kept dropping among the long gra.s.s, Till good Mr. Blackbird, who watched the whole thing, For pity could scarcely a single note sing, And in the May sunset he hardly could bear To hear the returning Rooks' caw of despair.

"O, dear Mrs. Blackbird," at last warbled he, "How happy we are in our humble thorn-tree; How gaily we live, living honest and poor, How sweet are the may-blossoms over our door."

"And then our dear children," the mother replied, And she nested them close to her warm feathered side, And with a soft twitter of drowsy content, In the quiet May moonlight to sleep they all went.

THE SHAKING OF THE PEAR-TREE

OF all days I remember, In summers pa.s.sed away, Was "the shaking of the pear-tree,"

In grandma's orchard gay.

A large old-fas.h.i.+oned orchard, With long gra.s.s under foot, And blackberry-brambles crawling In many a tangled shoot.

From cherry time, till damsons Dropped from the branches sere, That wonderful old orchard Was full of fruit all year;

We pick'd it up in baskets, Or pluck'd it from the wall; But the shaking of the pear-tree Was the grandest treat of all.

Long, long the days we counted Until that day drew nigh; Then, how we watched the sun set, And criticised the sky!

If rain--"'Twill clear at midnight;"

If dawn broke chill and gray, "O many a cloudy morning Turns out a lovely day."

So off we started gaily, Heedless of jolt or jar; Through town and lane, and hamlet, In old Llewellyn's car.

He's dead and gone--Llewellyn, These twenty years, I doubt: If I put him in this poem, He'll never find it out,

The patient, kind Llewellyn-- Whose broad face smiled all o'er, As he lifted out us children At grandma's very door.

And there stood Grandma's Betty, With cheeks like apples red; And Dash, the spaniel, waddled Out of his cosy bed.

With silky ears down dropping, And coat of chestnut pale; He was so fat and lazy He scarce could wag his tail.

Poor Dash is dead, and buried Under the lilac-tree; And Betty's old,--as, children, We all may one day be.

I hope no child will vex us, As we vexed Betty then, With winding up the draw-well, Or hunting the old hen.

And teasing, teasing, teasing, Till afternoon wore round, And shaken pears came tumbling In showers upon the ground.

O how we jumped and shouted!

O how we plunged amid The long gra.s.s, where the treasures, Dropped down and deftly hid;

Long, slender-shaped, red-russet, Or yellow just like gold; Ah! never pears have tasted Like those sweet pears of old!

We ate--I'd best not mention How many: paused to fill Big basket after basket; Working with right good-will;

Then hunted round the orchard For half-ripe plums--in vain; So, back unto the pear-tree, To eat, and eat again.

I'm not on my confession, And therefore need not say How tired, and cross, and sleepy, Some were ere close of day;

For pleasure has its ending, And eke its troubles too; Which you'll find out, my children, As well as we could do.

But yet this very minute, I seem to see it all-- The pear-tree's empty branches The gray of evening-fall;

The children's homeward silence, The furnace fires that glowed, Each mile or so, out streaming Across the lonely road;

And high, high set in heaven, One large bright, beauteous star, That shone between the curtains Of old Llewellyn's car.

THE WONDERFUL APPLE-TREE.[A]

COME here, my dear boys, and I'll tell you a fable, Which you may believe as much as you're able; It isn't all true, nor all false, I'll be bound-- Of the tree that bears apples all the year round.

There was a Dean Tucker of Gloster city, Who may have been wise, or worthy, or witty; But I know nothing of him, the more's the pity, Save that he was Dean Tucker of Gloster city.

And walking one day with a musing air In his Deanery garden, close by where The great cathedral's west window's seen,-- "I'll plant an apple," said Tucker the Dean.

The apple was planted, the apple grew, A stout young tree, full of leaves not few; The apple was grafted, the apple bore Of goodly apples, one, two, three, four.

The old Dean walked in his garden fair, "I'm glad I planted that young tree there, Though it was but a shoot, or some old tree's sucker; I'll taste it to-morrow," said good Dean Tucker.

But lo, in the night when (they say) trees talk, And some of the liveliest get up and walk, With fairies abroad for watch and warden-- There was such a commotion in the Dean's garden!

"I will not be gathered," the apple-tree said, "Was it for this I blossomed so red?

Hung out my fruit all the summer days, Got so much suns.h.i.+ne, and pleasure and praise?"

"Ah!" interrupted a solemn red plum, "This is the end to which all of us come; Last month I was laden with hundreds--but now"-- And he sighed the last little plum off from his bough.