 | Snow-berries. A book for young folks |  |
118
THE POTTER'S LUCK
I.
It was the summer's prime, and all the courtWere in the royal forest at their sport,
Hunting the hare to please the merry king,
Driving the game, and shooting on the wing;
Pages, and hounds, and troops of gentlemen
With horns that rung the echoes from the glen;
Ladies and lords with plumes and scarlet cloaks,
Sweeping across the shadows of the oaks.
II.
The while a potter, sitting by the way,Took in his hand a little piece of clay,
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To furbish it: he was a sad, sick man,
Having at home three children, pinched and pale,—
Is it a wonder that his heart should fail
With such a trouble tugging at the strings?
This hunting pleasure of the merry king's
Was not for any man, as you will guess,
Being so friendly with his own distress;
He knew not how to spend his holiday,
But just to keep on working with the clay!
III.
Well, as betwixt his palms the piece he rolled,A little zigzag stone that shined like gold
Dropt out, and rested on his knee. Just then
A lovely and sweet-hearted gentleman
Broke through the bushes,—leapt the wall that stood
About the outskirts of the royal wood,
And saw the potter sitting thus alone,—
Upon his knee the shining zigzag stone:
And in his white hand took it, paying down
On the poor potter's knee a silver crown;
Then leapt the wall and through the bushes sped.
That night the potter came, with lightsome tread,
Home to his house, and when he showed the crown,
You would have thought the roof was coming down!
Such merry children it were good to see,—
One at his shoulder, one on either knee;
And as a hand, brown as a leaf that's dead,
He laid upon each little golden head,
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About the shining bit of zigzag stone,
And all about the lovely gentleman,
Who, breaking through the bushes of the glen,
Leapt the great wall, and on his knee laid down—
The Lord knew why, he said—the silver crown,
His brown hands shook, his eyes with tears grew dim,
That such grand luck should fall by chance to him.
IV.
Then she, the eldest, at his shoulder, said,Putting one fair, bare arm about his head,
Her eyes bent down, her fingers pale and thin,
Going so soft along his rough gray chin:
“You say the Lord knows why such luck should fall;
It seems to me, now, just no luck at all!
But for your working all the day alone
Beside the royal wood, this precious stone
Would not have fallen upon your knee,—nor then
The silver crown of this fine gentleman!
To pay an honest debt is not so ill;
To earn the pay you get, is better still!”
And you who read the tale, I trust, agree
The honor went where honor ought to be.
| Snow-berries. A book for young folks | |