Snow-berries. A book for young folks

Cary, Alice (1820-1871)

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PRELUDE.

My little men and women
Who sit with your eyes downcast,
Turning the leaves of the Snow-Berries
Over and over so fast,

I know as I hear them flutter
Like the leaves on a summer bough,
You are looking out for the story about
The fairies,—are n't you, now?

And so it is wise to tell you
That you need not turn so fast,
For there is n't a single fairy-tale
In the book from first to last.

My Muse is plain and homespun,—
Quite given to work-day ways,—
And she never spent an hour in the tent
Of a fairy, in all her days.

She is strongest on her native soil;
And you will see she sings
Little in praise of elfs and fays,
And less of queens and kings.

The finest ladies, so she says,
And the gentlemen most grand,
Are made by Nature gentlefolk,
And are royal at first hand.

She says of the women who sew and spin,
And keep the house with care,
That they are the queens and princesses
Whose trains we ought to bear.

And says of the men who hammer and forge,
And clear and plough the land,
That they are the worthy gentlemen
Who make our country grand.

A ribbon, she says, in the buttonhole,
May go for what it goes,
But he is the greatest man who is great
Without such tinsel shows.

Our country's flag can never drag,
She says, nor its stars go down;
For how should it fall when one and all
Are rightful heirs to the crown!

But, little women, and little men,
I will tell you now, if you please,
What I set out to tell you about,—
Some real snow-berries.

All in the wild November,
And a long, long time ago,
When the birds were gone and the daisies done,
And clouds hung chilly and low,

Seven little and laughing children—
I, as you guess, being one—
Stood at the pane to charm the rain,
And to catch a glimpse of the sun.

At noon it was dreary as twilight,
But just as the clock struck two
There broke its way through the mass of gray
A hand's-breadth of the blue.

How close we pressed to see some cloud
Put on a golden edge,—
Head over head, and cheeks as red
As the roses in a hedge.

And the gray is grained with silver,
And the blue has widened its streak;
And I was the one to see the sun,
And I was the one to speak!

“Now, out and away to the meadows!
The rain has been charmed, you see,—
For here at our feet are our shadows,—
Three, and one, and three.

“Be sure, the beautiful violet
In the grass no longer glows,
But we may get a-burning yet,
Some little lamp of a rose!”

So out we ran to the meadows,
Though the time of flowers was done,
And after us ran our shadows,—
Three and three, and one.

All up and down the rivulets
That shaved so close to the sand,
And all across the lowland moss,
And across the stubble land;

And deep, and deeper into the wood,
And under the hedge-row wall;
To the Callamus Pond, and on beyond,
And never a flower at all!

Footsore, weary, and heart-sick,
We had tramped for three long hours,
When a voice so proud cried out aloud,
“The flowers! I 've found the flowers!”

Fast we flew to the top of the hill,
And fast and faster down,
And full in sight limbs shone so white
From the thicket dull and brown.

vii

The turf slides back, and farther back,
We are there, we are under the trees!
And our eager hands are breaking the wands
Of the milk-white snow-berries!

We had had a tramp, through cold and damp,
Of three right weary hours,
But we did not grieve, if you believe,
That our berries were not flowers!

But each with a sheaf on his shoulder,
As white as the whitest foam,
We struck across the lowland moss,
And into the lights of home.

So, my little men and women,
Who sit with your eyes downcast,
Turning the leaves of the Snow-Berries,
So eagerly and so fast,

When that you fail to find the tale
Of airy fancy bred,
You may even get some pleasure yet
From the stories in their stead.

TWO BIRDS.

In the blithe and budding weather
Of an April-time of yore,
Two wild-birds sat together
In the peach-tree at my door.

And each was gayly furnished,
And in beauty all complete,
From the topknot brightly burnished
To the rosy little feet.

Now under shadows winging,
And now hopping forth to view,
To the other each was singing,—
Thus the prouder of the two,—

Thus only, “Pretty! Pretty!”
In a low, caressing strain,
While in answer, “Sweety! Sweety!”
Softly sounded back again.

The buds to flowers were starting,
And the young leaves came in sight,
While they stayed together courting
In the peach-tree; but one night

They vanished. Swift with duties
Ran the time into the past,
Till I found my truant beauties,
As I knew I should, at last.

Making tender, twittering hushes,
That were sweet as any words,
Flying in and out the bushes
With a flock of little birds.

The snow stayed all unmelted,
And the winds of winter beat
On the boughs that lately tilted
Under rosy little feet,

When I heard a bird thus crying,
From the cold and frozen ground,
To the mate above him flying,
Half-distracted, round and round:—

“My wings are stiff and sleety,
I am dying in my bed,—
I am dying, darling.” “Sweety.”
That was every thing she said.

TO THE BOYS.

Don't you be afraid, boys,
To whistle loud and long,
Although your quiet sisters
Should call it rude or wrong.

Keep yourselves good-natured,
And if smiling fails,
Ask them if they ever saw
Muzzles on the quails!

Or the lovely red-rose
Try to hide her flag,
Or the June to smother all
Her robins in a bag!

If they say the teaching
Of nature is n't true,
Get astride the sence, boys,
And answer with a Whew!

I'll tell you what it is, boys,
No water-wheel will spin,
Unless you set a whistle
At the head of every pin.

And never kite flew skyward
In triumph like a wing
Without the glad vibration
Of a whistle in the string.

And when the days are vanished
For idleness and play,
'T will make your labors lighter
To whistle care away.

So don't you be afraid, boys,
In spite of bar and ban,
To whistle,—it will help you each
To make an honest man.

COUNTING THE CHICKENS.

Come, Joe! come, Johnny! the chickens are out,
As true as I am alive!
Let me count,—one, two, three, four,—
O, if I can find but one more
Of the beauties, that will be five!

Just look and see how they hop about!
And see what a pretty thing
The little gray one is, and oh!
There is another one! see it, Joe,
With its head through its mother's wing!

My dainty darlings, be still, be still!
Just a minute till I can see
Which is prettiest,—that with down
Softly yellow and striped with brown,
Or that with the golden bill.

That one is cunning, with back and breast
Black as a raven, and so small,—
No bigger than one of its mother's eggs,
And the tiniest little rosy legs,—
I hardly saw it at all.

I will double up my hand to a nest,
Afraid though I am of the mother hen,
And put them into it one by one,
The gray, the yellow, the black, and dun,
And see which is prettiest then!

ADVICE.

Do not look for wrong and evil,—
You will find them if you do;
As you measure for your neighbor
He will measure back to you.

Look for goodness, look for gladness,
You will meet them all the while;
If you bring a smiling visage
To the glass, you meet to smile.

TALK WITH A TREE.

Standing straight up in the glory
Of God's sunshine, O my tree,
I would know thy wondrous story,—
Wilt thou speak and tell it me?
With head in the sun and feet in the ground,
My heart it keepeth sweet and sound,
And evermore I grow and grow,
And this is all I know.

Rough and wild and many-jointed,
Thou art clothed with gracious hues,
And thy body is anointed
Nightly with the pleasant dews.
The sun and the storm I gladly greet,
And my heart it keepeth sound and sweet,
And my head is high and my root is low,
And this is all I know.

All thy blossoms come in season,—
In their time thy fruits come in,—
Canst thou give to me a reason?
Thou dost neither toil nor spin.
Deep I strike my roots in the ground,
And my heart it keepeth sweet and sound,
And my buds they bloom, and my fruits they glow,
And this is all I know.

From thy roots in silence pushing
Through the dark and gloomy ground,—
From thy boughs with blossoms blushing,—
From thy heart so sweet and sound,
Thou seemest to tell me, tree of mine,
We are not all earthy nor all divine,
But sown in corruption to be raised
Incorruptible,—God be praised.

A NEW-YEAR'S LESSON.

The house was little and low and old,
But the logs on the hearth burned bright,
And two little girls with locks of gold
Were playing in the light;
And their hearts were glad and their laughter gay,
For the morrow would bring the New-Year's day.

The house was little, the house was low;
But cheerily shone the light
Out of the window and over the snow
(For the ground with snow was white),
Cheerily shimmered and shone about,
As if there were fire within and without.

An ancient, gnarled, and knotty tree
Hung all about the eaves;

So the little house just seemed to be
A bird's-nest in the leaves;
And the little girls, in homespun dressed,
Just like the nestlings of the nest.

And still as the wind with sharp teeth snapped
A leaflet sere and brown,
Right merrily their hands they clapped
To see it sliding down,
Past the firelight's ruddy glow,
To the fire that seemed to be in the snow.

“O mother, mother!” they cried with a will,
Their cheeks to the window pressed,
And peeping shyly over the sill,
Like birdlings over the nest,
“See how it flutters and flies about;
It thinks there is fire in the snow, no doubt.”

And then they laugh and shout with glee,
And tell how wild it whirls,
And call it crazy as it can be,
“You foolish little girls!”
The mother sadly and sweetly said,
Laying a hand on each golden head:—

“Suppose that leaf a crazy thing,
My darlings; even suppose
It thought the firelight glimmering
Out there upon the snows,

The same as the fire upon the hearth,
Why, that were not a cause for mirth!”

And then she says, as pearl on pearl
Her pale cheek trickles down:
“It makes me think of the beggar-girl
We saw in the streets of the town;
Her hand as little and brown as a leaf,—
Just such a picture of houseless grief.

“By some sharp breath of fortune whirled
Away from her mother's knee,
She is left to flutter about the world,
The same as the leaf of a tree;
No roof for her, my dears, you know,
Nor fire, except the fire in the snow.

“In her poor hand, so brown and cold,
No New-Year's gift will shine.”
Dropped low was each shining head of gold.
“I wish I could give her mine!”
Cry both little girls, as they see the glow
Of their New-Year's fire outside in the snow.

THE BURNING PRAIRIE.

The prairie stretched as smooth as a floor,
Far as the eye could see,
And the settler sat at his cabin door
With a little girl on his knee,
Striving her letters to repeat,
And pulling her apron over her feet.

His face was wrinkled, but not old,
For he held an upright form,
And his shirt-sleeves back to the elbow rolled,
They showed a brawny arm;
And near in the grass, with toes upturned,
Was a pair of old shoes, cracked and burned.

A dog with his head betwixt his paws
Lay lazily dozing near,
Now and then snapping his tar-black jaws
At the fly that buzzed at his ear;
And near was the cow-pen, made of rails,
And a bench that held two milking-pails.

In the open door an ox-yoke lay,
The mother's odd redoubt,
To keep the little one at her play
On the floor from falling out;
While she swept the hearth with a turkey-wing,
And filled her tea-kettle at the spring.

The little girl on her father's knee,
With eyes so bright and blue,
From A B C to X Y Z
Had said her lesson through,
When a wind came over the prairie-land,
And caught the primer out of her hand.

The watch-dog whined, the cattle lowed,
And tossed their horns about;
The air grew gray as if it snowed;
“There will be a storm, no doubt!”
So to himself the settler said;
“But, father, why is the sky so red?”

And the little girl slid off his knee,
And all of a tremble stood;
“Good wife,” he cried; “come out and see!
The clouds are as red as blood!”
“God save us!” cried the settler's wife,
“The prairie's afire! We must run for life!”

She caught the baby up. “Come! come!
Are ye mad? to your heels, my man!”
He followed, terror-stricken, dumb,
And so they ran and ran;
Close upon them the snort and swing
Of buffaloes, madly galloping.

The wild wind like a sower sows
The ground with sparkles red,

And the flapping wings of bats and crows
Through the ashes overhead,
And the bellowing deer and the hissing snake,—
What a swirl of terrible sounds they make!

No gleam of the river water yet!
And the flames leap on and on!
A crash, and a fiercer whirl and jet,
And the settler's house is gone!
The air grows hot. “This fluttering curl
Would blaze like flax,” says the little girl.

And as the smoke against her drifts,
And the lizard slips close by her,
She tells how the little cow uplifts
Her speckled face from the fire;
For she cannot be hindered from looking back
At the fiery dragon on their track.

They hear the crackling grass and sedge,
The flames as they whir and rave;
On, on! they are close to the water's edge!
They are there, breast-deep in the wave!
And lifting their little ones high o'er the tide,—
“We are saved, thank God! we are saved!” they cried.

THE COW-BOY.

Day after day, when the tawny-bills
Were twittering through the boughs,
“Sook! sook!” across the sunset hills
He would call his mother's cows.

“Whee! whee!” and then the thrum and fall
Of the clumsy meadow-bar,
And we knew he had found them one and all,
“Mottle,” and “Rose,” and “Star.”

A merry cry, and then a hush,
And then a merrier ring,—
He had found a bird's-nest in a bush,
And was happier than a king.

“Plash and plash!” and “Sook, sook!”
And tramp and trill again,—
He had brought his cows across the brook,
And was singing up the lane.

Spingspang! whish! in the bucket cool
And burnished silver-bright,
And then he had gotten his milking-stool,
And was milking with all his might.

Clump! clatter! spinkle! span!
He had done with the milking-chore,
And was setting each shining and shallow pan
On the watery “spring-house” floor.

Days went and came, and came and went,
And over the sunset hills
No more his cheerful call was blent
With the twittering tawny-bills.

But in the dingle and in the dell
Deep silence held the rule;
The little lad that we loved so well
Was gone to the grammar-school.

Years came and went, and went and came;
He had made, or mastered fate,
For the little cow-boy's humble name
Was the name that ruled the state.

LITTLE ELLIE.

Darling Little Ellie,
Stout of heart and limb,—
What, I often wonder,
Will the future make of him?

Where will be the roses
That keep his cheeks so red,
When years with their temptations
And trials shall have fled?

Stirring with the morning,
As if he owned the farm;
On the floor at sunset,
Sleeping on his arm:

Torn and faded jacket,
Feet brown and bare,
Sunshine laughing in his eyes,
And tangled in his hair.

In his little bucket,
Helping milk the cows,—
Riding on the horses,
Tumbling down the mows;

Wading in the water,
Working mimic mills,—
Chasing through the meadows,
Rolling down the hills;

Making strings of elm-bark,
Stealing mother's yarn,—
All to see his kite fly
Higher than the barn;

Planning long aforetime,
With ambitious pride,
How, when snow has fallen,
He'll have a sled and ride.

Gravely puzzling over
Each childish little plan,—
Working, and tugging,
And scheming like a man.

Now upon grandfather's knee,
Listening with delight
To the stories that are new
Every day and night.

Now, with joyous make-believe
In despite his frown,
Turning chairs to railcars,
And riding into town.

Ah, 't is wisely well for us
That we cannot see
What in years that are to come
He will grow to be.

THE BRICKMAKER'S BOY.

The ground of the brick-yard is burning and bare;
By the hedgerow are plenty of shady spots,
But Ralph, when he gets a white apron to wear,
Plays in the mortar, and shapes it to pots.

That is his mother's house over the hill,
With the pitcher of pinks in the window, so sweet,
And Ralph is her darling, and sets at his will,
In the soft bricks, the prints of his bare little feet.

Poor soul!—she is homely and wrinkled and old,
And work is her portion, but what does she care
For herself, since no neighbor has need to be told
That her darling has beauty enough, and to spare!

Low down on the limbs of the prickly sweet-brier
Are handfuls of roses, but still he will push
His cheek through the thorns, for the one red as fire
That grows out of reach at the top of the bush.

Sometimes the old brickmaker, sunburnt and bent,
Will tug him about on his shoulder awhile,
Whereat, growing restless instead of content,
He scarcely repays the good man with a smile.

He makes of a stray piece of cedar a shelf,
Sometimes, where he sets up his pots in the sun,
And then, growing vexed with his work or himself,
He breaks them, and tramples them down, every one.

From the time when the locust puts on the white mass
Of his odorous plumes, till in summer's decay,
His bright yellow jacket he throws on the grass
And braves the bleak wind, he is busy each day.

I know it is all in his own wilful way,
Yet sigh, as I see him a-working so hard,
His hands and his apron so heavy with clay
He scarcely can toddle about in the yard.

My heart often says to me, wherefore employ
Your thoughts in a fashion so pitiful? then,
Reflecting, I see in the brickmaker's boy
A type of the work and the wisdom of men.

LESS OR MORE.

Seven trees grew beside our door,—
We used to wish they were six, or four!
Seven,—each standing so close to each,
The boughs from one to the other could reach,
And when the wild winds over them run
The tops of the seven trees looked like one.

There they stood in the rain and shine,
Like so many soldiers, all of a line,
Beating the tempest away when it came;
And still when the midsummer burned like a flame,
Dropping their shadows, now less, now more,
Over the door-stone and into the door.

Seven, and one of the seven, an oak,
Scarred and scathed by a lightning-stroke,
That, leaving it at the fork gaped wide,
Ran like a black vein down one side;
An elm, with a shaggy red vine at the top,
Hanging loose, and as though it were ready to drop.

Three sweet silver maples, a willow so fair
That like a lithe swimmer took hold of the air;
A walnut, too proud to yield ever a nut,
With all its black bark into rough diamonds cut.
And so there were seven—we wished they were four,
Or six—we would have them be less or be more!

Fair every tree of them—why should we say
If this one or that one were only away!
O, 'tis no matter,—the story is meant
To show you that mortals are never content,
And if the trees had been six, or four,
We still would have wished they were less, or more.

FINE TALK.

They may talk about talk
With a silvery ring,
But silence is sometimes
An excellent thing.
Of course there's no statute
To limit the breath,
And he that so chooses
May talk you to death!
But if you have nothing
To tell or to teach,
There's no use abusing
The good gift of speech!

I ve heard tongues that clattered
Like shallowest brooks,
But never the fine talk
You read of in books!
I often hear things
That were tolerably good,
But not your fine, fine talk,—
I wish that I could!
For when words like music
Have ravished the air,
It somehow has happened
I never was there.

It is, as I fancy,
The fault of my star,
For certainly somewhere
Fine talkers there are;
And sometimes I've thought,
For a minute or two,
Here is one! He was telling me
All that he knew!
For when we next met,
Without switching the train
Of a thought, he repeated
The same things again.

And if I might venture
One word to suggest
To the talkers, who brilliantly
Prey on the rest,

I would tell them that no one,
So far as I 've heard,
Likes always to listen
And say not a word;
And that it were wisdom
To ponder my rhyme,
And utter their oracles
One at a time!

THREE LITTLE WOMEN.

There were three little women,
Each fair in the face,
And their laughter, like music,
Filled all the green place,
As they sat knitting talk with the
Threads of their lace.

Of the winds in the tree-tops,
The flowers in the glen,—
The birds, the brown robin,
The wood-dove, the wren,—
They talked, but their thoughts were
Of three little men!

The sea lay before them,
With ships going by;
Behind them the hills shone,
So grand and so high;
And above them, blue beautiful
Patches of sky.

But they felt not the sweetness
That smiled from the lea,
And they knew not the way of
The wind through the tree;
And they saw not the sea,
When they looked at the sea!

The wood-dove tapped note of the storm,
The shy wren
Twittered fearful, and low
Hung the mist o'er the fen,
But all that they thought of
Was three little men!

The wind rose, the clouds gathered,
Mass upon mass,
The sun drew his long lines
Of light from the grass,—
Alas! for the three little
Women, alas!

Fast home ran the robin,
Fast home flew the wren;

The blacksnake led all his
Black sons to the fen,
That lay 'twixt the three
Little women and men.

The sky was all over
One horrible frown;
The rain from the hill-tops
In torrents dashed down,
The three little short-sighted
Women to drown.

They died: pray their watery
Graves may atone
For their folly, in trusting
To see things alone
Through the eyes of the
Three little men,—not their own.

PRETTY IS THAT PRETTY DOES.

The spider wears a plain brown dress,
And she is a steady spinner;
To see her, quiet as a mouse
Going about her silver house,
You would never, never, never guess
The way she gets her dinner!

She looks as if no thought of ill
In all her life had stirred her,
But while she moves with careful tread,
And while she spins her silken thread,
She is planning, planning, planning still
The way to do some murder!

My child, who reads this simple lay
With eyes down-dropt and tender,
Remember the old proverb says
That pretty is, which pretty does,
And that worth does not go nor stay
For poverty nor splendor.

'T is not the house and not the dress
That makes the saint or sinner.
To see the spider sit and spin,
Shut with her walls of silver in,
You would never, never, never guess
The way she gets her dinner!

ELIJAH AND I.

The house that you see underneath the great pine,
With walls that are painted and doors that are fine,
And meadows and wheat-fields about it, is mine.

On the stony side-hill of the woodland close by,
In a house that is not half so wide nor so high,
Elijah, my miller, lives, richer than I.

When I go to the town to pay tax on my land,
He sits by the chimney, his book in his hand,
And merry of heart as if money were sand.

Of the meadows about him he owns not a rood,
No stone of the brookside, no stick of the wood,
Yet ne'er lacked Elijah for clothing or food.

'T is good in his blue eyes the twinkle to see;
That the mill goes awry never troubles his glee;
'T is I that must pay for the mending,—not he.

He laughs while I frown, and he sings while I sigh,
The pleasant love-ditties of days that are by;
So Elijah, my miller, is richer than I.

A FISHERMAN.

A fisherman leaned on a clapboard gate
He was often used to pass;
'T was sunset, and two little boys
Were playing on the grass.

The watchdog by the door-stone sat,
And bayed the rising moon,
And the mother milked her cow and sung
An old and pleasant tune.

The children left their play and ran,
And, leaning on her knee,
She milked the milk into their mouths,
Laughing with girlish glee.

And as she carried her frothy pail
Slow to the rustic door,
One little one held at her skirt behind,
And the other one before.

She stopped, and hugging both their heads
Against her loving breast,
They looked like two bright little birds
A-peeping from one nest.

The sunburnt fisher went his way,
Sighing, alas, alas!
It was not for the little boys
That played upon the grass.

And when he came where cold gray stones
Were standing, many a pair,
He put his net from his shoulder down,—
His little boy was there.

AMY TO HER FLOWERS.

My lowly little beauties,
Your time is coming on,—
The meadows will be full of you
Before a month is gone.
I never knew your names, so near
Your wild estate I grew,
But would that you could be alive
To feel my love for you.

Full many a time the coverlets
Of grass from off your beds
I've turned, my beauties, just to touch,
With reverent hands, your heads.
They called you simple country flowers,
But what for that care I?
I loved you all the more because
You were not proud and high!

We had our ways of naming you,—
We children of the wood,—
Red-slippers, lily-fingers,
Queen's cap, and martyr's blood.
The rustic flower, by virtue of
A coat as brown as sand,
And by the dew-drop shining
Like a sickle in his hand.

The crumply cow,—the little shrew
In strange and sad attire,—
Lover's tremble, old maid's thimble,—
Moon men,—miser's fire;
And one we used to gather
When the millet land was ploughed,
With little thin and ragged leaves,
We called the beggar's shroud.

The belle,—the lady leopard,—
The sweetheart,—tender-eyed,—
The spinner's gown,—the winter-frown,
And many a one beside.
And these, our untaught fancies,
So much from nature grew,
I do not care to call you
By the names that others do.

But O my little beauties,
Of field and brook and brake,—
The slender ones,—the tender ones,—
I would, for my love's sake,
I could take and make immortal,
With the power of better lays,
All your crooked little bodies
That had never any praise.

AUTUMN THOUGHTS.

When frosts begin the leaves to blight,
And winds to beat and blow,
I think about a stormy night
Of a winter long ago.

The clouds that lay, when the sun went down,
In a heap of blood-red bars,
Turned, all at once, of a grayish brown,
And ran across the stars.

And the moon went out, and the wind fell low,—
And in silence everywhere
The fine and flinty flakes of snow
Slipped slantwise down the air.

Slipped slantwise down, more fast and fast,
And larger grew amain,
Till the long-armed brier-bush, at last,
Was like a ghost at the pane.

A group of merry children we,
As any house can show;
The very rafters rang with glee,
That night, beneath the snow.

The candle up and down we slid,
To make our shadows tall;
And played at hide-and-seek, and hid
Where we were not hid at all.

We heaped the logs against the cold,
And made the chimney roar;
And told the stories we had told
A thousand times before.

We ran our stock of riddles through,—
Nor large, be sure, nor wise;
And guessed the answers that we knew,
And feigned a glad surprise.

But, in despite our frolic joys,
That rang so wild and high,
We wished, we foolish girls and boys,
That time would faster fly.

And years have come and gone since then;
And the children there at play,
Are sober women, now, and men,
With heads that are growing gray.

But their hearts will never be so light,
And their cheeks will never glow
As they did upon that stormy night,
In the garret rude and low.

118

THE POTTER'S LUCK

I.

It was the summer's prime, and all the court
Were 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,

119

And from the habit of his life began
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,

120

And told, with heart a-tremble in his tone,
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.

121

A POET'S WALK.

Once his way a poet took
Through a deep and dewy glen;
Write about me in your book!
Cried the redbreast, cried the wren.

Twittering low from every bush,
Chirping loud from every tree,
Cried the pewet, cried the thrush,
Cried the blackbird, write of me!

Sing about my eyes, my wings,—
Mine is but a humble boon,—
So they cried, the silly things!
Crossing each the other's tune.

But the poet, sign of grace
Giving not by look or tone,
Turned into a shady place,
Where a daisy lived alone.

All her modest shoulders hid
In a veil of leaves of grass,
Dropping either snowy lid
Sat she still to see him pass.

122

Then the poet, with a quill
That some eager bird had shook
Downward, all against her will,
Wrote about her in his book.

124

EASY WORK.

Little children, be not crying;
You have easy work to do;
Look not upward for the flying
Of the angels in the blue;

Look not for some great example,
Such as deaths of martyrs give;
One command above is ample
For the teaching you to live:

So that you will find out roses
Brighter than are by the brooks;
Poesy with sweeter closes
Than are in the poet's books;

Friends to gently watch and tend you
When your hours of pain go by,
And at last their prayers to lend you,
When your time has come to die.

In your working, in your praying,
In your actions, great or small,
In your hearts keep Jesus' saying,—
“Love each other”: this is all.

125

COURAGE.

Knowing the right and true,
Let the world say to you
Worst that it can:
Answer despite the blame,
Answer despite the shame,
I'll not belie my name,—
I'll be a man!

Armed only with the right,
Standing alone to fight
Wrong, old as time,
Holding up hands to God
Over the rack and rod,—
Over the crimson sod,
That is sublime!

Monarchs of old, at will
Parcelled the world, but still
Crowns may be won:
Yet there are piles to light,—
Putting all fear to flight,
Shouting for truth and right,
Who will mount on?

126

JENNY AND I.

We rise before the lark,
And keep working till dark,
And by striving to do right we are fearless of the wrong;
We never scold and fret,
And we never go in debt,
And that's the way my Jenny and I get along.

Nor lodge nor servants' hall
Give us any care at all,
No lady's maid or coachman have we to find or lose;
And with Jenny on my knee,
And no prying eyes to see,
We can say what we wish to say, and do what we choose.

You might think our little house
Just a shelter for a mouse,
And counting each treasure, I am free to declare
That a “real India shawl”
Would have cost the price of all,
Yet I and my Jenny have enough and to spare.

From the trembling tongues of trees,
Through the prairie's grassy seas,
In the green, growing cornfields, and beside the rainy brooks;

127

In the flowery springtide-prime,
And the Indian summer time,
We have always sweeter poems than poets write in books.

When banks are breaking down,
And disaster like a frown
Weighs hard, in the city, on the low and the high,
We have still our cribs and mows,
Our oxen, sheep, and cows,
And so we calmly sleep o' nights, my Jenny and I.

155

TO A STAGNANT POND.

O pond of the meadow,
So low and so black,
Say why are you lying thus,
Flat on your back!

Week in and week out,
And from night until morn,
You have been doing nothing
Since first you were born.

Now if you are not dead
But only just dumb,
Get up, sir, and take off
Your jacket of scum!

No sweet little flower
To your dull bosom bends;

156

You have only the hop-toad
And snake for your friends!

No bird to your dark wave
Comes twittering down,
And the grass all about you
Is withered and brown.

It is time, and high time,
You were setting to work,
You sordid, unlovable,
Beggarly shirk!

Just think, with your brow
Into black wrinkles curled,
You never have gladdened
A heart in the world!

And if you would henceforth
Escape from abuse,
Get up, I beseech you,
And be of some use!

Close at hand, only hid by
The sheep-grazing hill,
Your gad-about sister
Is turning a mill.

Her path is so pleasant,
Her smile is so bright,
The flocks stay about her
All day and all night.

157

The wild mint leans lowly,
Her kiss is so sweet,
And the stones that she treads on
Sing under her feet.

With foam-flowers always
Her wet locks are crowned,
And her bushes with berries
Blush all the year round.

She counts not the mill-work
As doing her wrong,
But makes the wheel partner,
And dances along.

And so, with her life
And her labor content,
She is queen of the meadow
By common consent.

Now here is a secret,
Receive it in faith,—
True life is in action,
Stagnation is death.

And this you may learn
From your sister, the brook,
As though it were written
And bound in a book.

158

You die in your torpor,
She rests in her strife,
Because she is keeping
The law of her life.

And would you be happy
As she at her mill,
Throw off your scum jacket,
And work with a will.

THE POET TO THE PAINTER.

Painter, paint me a sycamore,
A spreading and snowy-limbed tree,
Making cool shelter for three,
And like a green quilt at the door
Of the cabin near the tree,
Picture the grass for me,
With a winding and dusty road before,
Not far from the group of three,
And the silver sycamore-tree.

'T will take your finest skill to draw
From that happy group of three,
Under the sycamore-tree,
The little girl in the hat of straw
And the faded frock, for she

159

Is as fair as fair can be.
You have painted frock and hat complete!
Now the color of snow you must paint her feet;
Her cheeks and lips from a strawberry-bed;
From sunflower-fringes her shining head.

Now, painter, paint the hop-vine swing
Close to the group of three,
And a bird with bright brown eyes and wing,
Chirping merrily.
“Twit twit, twit twit, twee!”
That is all the song he makes,
And the child to mocking laughter breaks.
Answering, “Here are we,
Father and mother and me!”
Pretty darling, her world is small,—
Father and mother and she are all.

Ah, painter, your hand is still!
You have made the group of three
Under the sycamore-tree,
But you cannot make all the skill
Of your colors say, “Twit twit, twee!”
Nor the answering, “Here are we,
Father and mother and me.”
I'll be a poet, and paint with words
Talking children and chirping birds.

160

ONLY A DREAM.

“The flighty purpose never is o'ertook,
Unless the deed go with it.”

One time, when lying in my bed,
Many a night ago,
Flying and flapping over my head,
There went a cunning crow.
I might have struck the creature dead,
She sailed so near and slow.

I might have struck her as she went,
(All in a dream lay I,)
But thought was on the method bent,
My fated bird should die;
And when at last the shaft was sent,
The archer's time was by.

“O cruel, cunning bird,” I said,
“What made you fly away?
I would have dyed your black wings red,
With but a moment's stay.
Then you had flown without your head,”—
(All in a dream I lay.)

Her nest was in a giant tree,
So safe and snug and high;
And I said, “If there your young ones be,
I'll kill them when they fly.”

161

'T was hard just then to climb and see,—
(All in a dream lay I.)

Afield with my two boys one morn,
(This was the vision's close,)
Each with a basket full of corn
To plant the furrowed rows;
Right over us, in full-fledged scorn,
There went three wicked crows.

“You might have killed us once,” they cried,
“Our mother's nest you knew;
But now our wings are strong and wide,
And we can caw at you!”
Then vanished all my manhood's pride,—
The birds had spoken true.

“O father,” said my boys to me,
“'T is plain that crows will lie;
You knew what they would grow to be,
Before they learned to fly,
And would have killed them in the tree,”—
(All in a dream lay I.)

Many and many a night since then
I've called to mind that crow,
And thought how many thousand men
Through all their lifetime go,
Planning out times and seasons when
They will do thus and so;

162

But all their joys are shallow joys,
Their praise augments their woes;
For I remember when my boys
Denounced the taunting crows,
A voice inside of all their noise,
Condemning me, arose.

INVENTORY OF A DRUNKARD.

A hut of logs without a door,
Minus a roof and ditto floor;
A clapboard cupboard without crocks,
Nine children without shoes or frocks;
A wife that has not any bonnet
With ribbon bows and strings upon it,
Scolding and wishing to be dead,
Because she has not any bread.

A teakettle without a spout,
A meat-cask with the bottom out,
A “comfort” with the cotton gone,
And not a bed to put it on.
A handle without any axe,
A hatchel without wool or flax;
A potlid and a wagon-hub,
And two ears of a washing-tub;
Three broken plates of different kinds,
Some mackerel tails and bacon-rinds;

163

A table without leaves or legs,
One chair, and half a dozen pegs,
One oaken keg with hoops of brass,
One tumbler of dark-green glass;
A fiddle without any strings,
A gunstock, and two turkey wings.

O readers of this inventory,
Take warning by its graphic story;
For little any man expects,
Who wears good shirts with buttons in 'em,
Ever to put on cotton checks,
And only have brass pins to pin 'em!
'T is, remember, little stitches
Keep the rent from growing great;
When you can't tell beds from ditches,
Warning words will be too late.

HUNTER'S SONG.

I know a mountain high,
With its head against the sky,
Where the stormy eagles fly
East and west;
There, at morning's ruddy gleam,
And in evening's purple beam,
I have heard the nursling scream
From the nest!

164

O, I love that mountain high,
With its head against the sky,
And the hungry nurslings' cry,
All forlorn;
For as winds went to and fro,
Cutting furrows through the snow,
In a hunter's hut so low,
I was born.

O, I love the rocky glade,
Where my little brothers played,
Where together they are laid
In green beds;
With a water murmuring nigh
Its eternal lullaby,
And a blue strip of the sky
At their heads.

167

A GOOSE AND A CROW.

Two geese, scarcely knowing
The east from the west,
Got on to the water
And rode off abreast,—
Geese, you know, are not famed
For their wisdom, at best.

Well, these were perhaps
Neither greater nor less
Than their fellows,—each had on
A very white dress,
And both had short tails,
And a neck like an S.

The morning was genial,
The water was still,
And each with her heart
On the end of her bill
Began telling secrets,
As geese sometimes will.

“All ganders are vulgar,”
One said, “all so low
That one can't respect them;
My dear, do you know
I am really going
To marry a crow!”

168

“A crow!” cried the other one,
Slanting her eye:
“What! one of those black things
That swim in the sky?
How strange it would be
To go swimming so high!

“But are you sure, darling,
(Though 't is n't for me
To question your wisdom,)
That you shall agree?
I've heard say that crows
Have their nests in a tree!”

“And what if they do, dear?
Should that make you doubt
My wisdom?” “No, darling,
My fears were about
The poor little goslings—
Might they not fall out?”

“Fall out of their own nest
Ah, where could you go
To find such a foolish fear?
Do you not know
That the carefullest bird
In the world is the crow?

“And when he shall have young
To quicken his care,

169

Do you think he will leave his nest
Out of repair?
Or, pray, do you think that
A crow is a bear?

“Why, only this morning,
The one I propose
To marry (be sure,
He's the kindest of crows)
Assured me that I should do
Just as I chose!

“And so if I don't like
My nest in a tree,
Inasmuch as he means
To defer thus to me,
I will come down and build
On the ground.” “If that he

“Continue his deference
When you are matched,”
Said the wiser goose, “and if when
Discords are hatched,
He shall have no sharp claws
Nor your eyes to be scratched!”

“I see,” said the first goose,
Receiving amiss
The warning, “that you, madam,
Envy my bliss,—

170

Good morning,” The last word
Was almost a hiss.

They married, this stranger pair,
For better or worse,
And, being opposed
In their natures, of course,
They quarrelled,—she left him,
Brought suit for divorce,—

And charged him with saying
A goose was a goose,
Also with most cruel
Neglect and abuse,
And with being black,—all true,
But no sort of use!

And so they are living,—
He high in his tree,
Misanthropic as ever
A crow was, and she
Decrying the courts
That won't grant a decree.

He says to his friends
He was not understood,—
Says he would n't get married
Again if he could;
And she says he lies,
For he knows that he would.

196

CATY JANE.

One summer morning, as I walked
Along a shady lane,
I met a black-eyed little girl,
Whose name was Caty Jane.

She had a pretty basket full
Of blossoms blue and white,
And when I asked her where she went,
She hid her face from sight;

And sitting where the clover grew
So sweet and thick and red,
She said, “I had a sister once
Who loved me, and is dead;

“And yonder, to the slope on which
You see the willows wave,
I'm going with my flowers, for there
Is little Annie's grave.

197

“Her goodness and her gentleness
I oftentimes forgot;
She never said an unkind word,—
I wish that I had not.

“We had a play-house once, beside
This very shady lane;
I wish it never had been made,”
Said little Caty Jane.

“'T was carpeted with grass, and weeds
Were piled to make the walls;
The beds were spread with burdock-leaves,
And mother gave us dolls.

“We had some broken cups, and had
Some skeins of thread, I know,
And sometimes we pretended we
Were women, and would sew;

“And often I would visit her,
And she would come again,
And make believe to visit me,”
Said little Caty Jane.

“One day, when cloudily the sun
Was going down the hill,
Dear Annie said, ‘We must go home,’
The wind was growing chill.

198

“And when she wrapt her apron round
Her neck and shoulders bare,
I laughed, and called her grandmamma,
And said it was n't fair

“That she should run away, nor care
For playing, nor for me.
‘O Caty Jane,’ said Annie, then,
‘I'm cold as I can be.

“‘It seems as if no fire nor quilt
Could make me warm again.’
And, sure enough, they never did,”
Said little Caty Jane.

“She said that more and more her head
Kept aching all the while,
And from her hands the playthings fell,
But still she tried to smile.

“And when the moon came up and shone
So cold across the floor,
She said that we would never play
Together any more.

“‘Well, if you feel so very bad,
Do let's go home,’ said I,
‘That you may have a chance to make
Your will before you die.’

199

“And so I ran and left her in
Our play-house by the lane,
And ran the faster when she called,
‘Don't leave me, Caty Jane.’

“And sitting by the warm wood-fire,
In little Annie's chair,
I fell asleep, and woke in fright,—
My sister was n't there.

“‘She must be in a neighbor's house,’
My mother said; but I
Hid in her lap my face, and cried
As hard as I could cry;

“And told her I had left her in
Our play-house by the lane;
And there they found her, sure enough,”
Said little Caty Jane,

“Lying upon the frozen ground,
As cold as cold could be;
And when I called her pretty names
She did not speak to me.

“But with pale cheek and shut eyes lay
Upon our little bed.
And when the sun arose at morn,”
Poor mourning Caty said,

200

“I called her to get up, and kissed
Her cheek to make her wake;
And when she did not speak nor smile,
I thought my heart would break.

“I brought my playthings and my dolls,
And laid them on the bed,
And told her they were hers to keep,”
Poor little Caty said.

“And, waiting there in fear and doubt,
They softly kissed my brow,
And told me I must live without
My sister Annie, now.

“O then I knew how dear she was,”
Said little Caty Jane,
“And thought if she could be alive,
And play with me again,

“I'd say a thousand things to her
That I had never said.
'T was easy work to think kind words
To say when she was dead.”

And with her eyes brimful of tears,
She went along the lane;
No sister now had she to love,—
Poor little Caty Jane!

201

Seeing how very long she stayed
By Annie's lonesome bed,
I thought, If other little girls,
Whose sisters are not dead,

Could know how blest they are, and see
The sad look Caty wore,
They never would be heard to speak
A cross word any more.

For we must do to others just
As we would be done by,
If we would learn to live in peace,
Or peacefully to die.

THE STREET BEGGAR.

Shake not your glossy curls with a “No,”
As you sit in the warm and rosy glow
'Twixt your hearth and pictured wall;
Ah, my lady, you do not know
How folk feel with their feet in the snow,
And no bright fire at all.

A sixpence! that you will never miss;
See what a baby you have to kiss,
Honor and wealth to prove;
Ah, my lady, you cannot guess

202

How folk feel in a night like this,
With no little child to love.

From house to house I have gone all day,—
“Nothing for beggars,” is all they say,
Though a banquet waiting stands;
Ah, you never have known the way
Poor folk feel when their heads are gray
And palsy shaking their hands.

For sake of charity say not “No.”
I am almost famished,—I cannot go,—
I must steal or starve,—and why?
Because, my lady, you do not know
How folk feel with their feet in the snow,
Turned out from your fires to die.

EVIL CHANCE.

When falls the hour of evil chance,—
And hours of evil chance will fall,—
Strike, though with but a broken lance,—
Strike, though you have no lance at all.

Shrink not, whate'er the odds may be,—
Shrink not, however dark the hour,—
The barest possibility
Of good deserves your utmost power.

203

PLEA FOR THE BOYS.

Young men must work, and old men rest,—
They have earned their quiet joys;
And everywhere, from east to west,
The boys must still be boys.

They do not want your larger sight,
Nor want your wisdom grim:
The boy has right to the boy's delight,
And play is the work for him.

The idle day is the evil day,
And work in its time is right;
But he that wrestles best in the play
Will wrestle best in the fight.

Then do not, as their hour runs by,
Their harmless pleasures clip;
For he that sails his kite to the sky
May sometime sail a ship.

And soon enough the years will steal
Their mood of frolic joys;
So keep your shoulder to the wheel,
And let the boys be boys.

205

COUNSEL.

Though sin hath marked thy brother's brow,
Love him in sin's despite,
But for his darkness, haply thou
Hadst never known the light.

Be thou an angel to his life,
And not a demon grim;
Since with himself he is at strife,
O be at peace with him.

Speak gently of his evil ways,
And all his pleas allow;
For since he knows not why he strays
From virtue, how shouldst thou?

Love him, though all thy love he slights,
For ah, thou canst not say

206

But that his prayerless days and nights
Have taught thee how to pray.

Outside themselves all things have laws,
The atom and the sun;
Thou art thyself, perhaps, the cause
Of sins which he has done.

If guiltless thou, why surely then
Thy place is by his side,—
It was for sinners, not just men,
That Christ the Saviour died.

University of Virginia Library