 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
126
JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.
Crackle! crack! the ice is melting;
From the west the rain falls pelting:
Swish and gurgle, splash and spatter!
“Halloo! good folks, what 's the matter?
Seems to me the roof is leaking!”—
Jack from down below is speaking.
From the west the rain falls pelting:
Swish and gurgle, splash and spatter!
“Halloo! good folks, what 's the matter?
Seems to me the roof is leaking!”—
Jack from down below is speaking.
You know little Jack? In the spring he is seen on the swampy edge
Of the hemlock-wood, looking out from the shade of the fern-wreathed ledge:
But in winter he cuddles close under a thatch of damp leaves.—
Now the water is trickling fast in through his garret-eaves;
And he opens his eyes, and up he starts, out of his cosy bed,
And he carefully holds, while he climbs aloft, his umbrella over his head.
High time for you to be up, Jack, when every growing thing
Is washing and sunning itself, Jack, and getting ready for spring!
Of the hemlock-wood, looking out from the shade of the fern-wreathed ledge:
But in winter he cuddles close under a thatch of damp leaves.—
Now the water is trickling fast in through his garret-eaves;
And he opens his eyes, and up he starts, out of his cosy bed,
And he carefully holds, while he climbs aloft, his umbrella over his head.
High time for you to be up, Jack, when every growing thing
Is washing and sunning itself, Jack, and getting ready for spring!
Little Jack, the country preacher,
Thinks, “These rustics need a teacher:
I shall scold the wild young flowers
For coquetting with the showers
That invade my honest dwelling:
What I'll tell them—there 's no telling.”
Thinks, “These rustics need a teacher:
I shall scold the wild young flowers
For coquetting with the showers
That invade my honest dwelling:
What I'll tell them—there 's no telling.”
They call him Jack-in-the-Pulpit, he stands up so stiff and so queer
On the edge of the swamp, and waits for the flower-folk to come and hear
The text and the sermon, and all the grave things that he has to say;
But the blossoms they laugh and they dance,—they are wilder than ever, to-day;
And as nobody stops to listen, so never a word has he said;
But there in his pulpit he stands, and holds his umbrella over his head.
And we have not a doubt in our minds, Jack, you are wisely listening
To the organ-chant of the winds, Jack, and the tunes that the sweet birds sing!
On the edge of the swamp, and waits for the flower-folk to come and hear
The text and the sermon, and all the grave things that he has to say;
But the blossoms they laugh and they dance,—they are wilder than ever, to-day;
And as nobody stops to listen, so never a word has he said;
But there in his pulpit he stands, and holds his umbrella over his head.
And we have not a doubt in our minds, Jack, you are wisely listening
To the organ-chant of the winds, Jack, and the tunes that the sweet birds sing!
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |