Poems of Paul Hamilton Hayne :: :: University of Virginia Library

With the thrush and the blackbird piping loud;
The locust, deep in the pine-tree wood,
Shrilled, as only a locust could;
And borne on the waft of a summer breeze,
Swarmed by him an army of honey-bees.
Delighted he saw, delighted he heard
The morn, the bees, and the singing bird;
He also sang, as he roamed through the clover,
Feeling so jolly, and free all over!

But Bob—I must tell you the honest truth—
Was a terribly mischievous thoughtless youth;
Whatever he wanted to do or say,
He did and he said in the boldest way,
Not seeming to ponder, even to care
How naughty his words or his actions were;
For the only aim of this reckless elf
Was—everywhere, always, to please—himself!

'Twas to please himself, without license or leave
Nor a thought how his poor sick mother might grieve,
If she missed too long, on her suffering bed,
The golden gleam of his curly head,
That he left his home through the fields to stray,
On that sunny and beautiful summer's day,
As the air breathed over him, blithe-some, but calm,
All laden with fragrance and meadow-balm,
And the sunshine warmed his young blood through,
While it dazzled and danced from the stainless blue,
Bob felt that a jollity, wholesome and sweet,
Possessed him wholly, from head to feet.
He looked around, and what should his eye
In an open space 'mid the clover spy,
But an ant-hole, wrought in the sandy drouth.
Out of its busy, populous mouth,
The dwarfish tenants—an endless train,
Emerging, covered the tiny plain;
Eastward and westward, north and south,
They toiled, with a constant will, to gain
The fairy stores of their winter's grain;
Yet Bob in his recklessness deemed it fun
The ants and their mansion to overrun.
By millions down in the crumbling sod
The frightened creatures he swiftly trod;
Filled up with dust, and grasses, and stone,
The entrance-ways to their home, o'erthrown
Not one of the innocent horde, not one,
Was left to toil in the laughing sun—
But still Bob shouted, and thought it—fun!

Next on his wandering way he came
To a furze-bush, gleaming like yellow flame;
A spider as ugly and fierce as sin,
Had spread the snares of his web therein;
But—cunning and sly—as Bob rushed up,
He hid himself deep in a thistle's cup,
Leaving above, in his worship's stead,
A bee, caught fast in his poisoned thread!

Now, here was a chance for Bobby to free
From his pain and prison this harmless bee;
But bless you! no! 'twas a finer thing
He thought, to pierce him from wing to wing;
On a pin's keen point to whirl him high.

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And behold the quivering insect die,
This, too, when the barbarous act was done,
Seemed nothing to Bob but a moment's—fun.

More gleeful than ever, Bob onward pressed;
In the wayside thickets he found a nest,
The eggs half hatched; but he took them out,
And with rude hand scattered them all about,
Laughing to see how the egg-shells broke.
But hey! what's this? with a buffeting stroke,
The wings of the outraged mother-bird
(Who down from her neighboring perch had whirred,)
So smartly smote him on forehead and eyes,
That Bobby in his turn trembling—flies!

(Don't you think that his was a wretched plight?
Just picture a boy from a bird in flight!
His heart and his knee-joints weak with fright.)

But soon recovered, he trudged along,
Humming the words of a ballad-song,
Till reaching a place where the grasses bred
Tall “hoppers” in thousands, he staid his tread,
And cunningly crouching, as quick as thought,
A “grandfather hopper” was deftly caught.
Bob squeezed his body, and pulled his thighs,
And poked a straw in his winking eyes;
Then, with shrill laughter, and merry scoff,
He wrenched both legs of the creature off;
And next (could the rascal have had a heart?)
Its head from the body was snatched apart,
Till, a pitiful image of death and dearth,
Its carcass lay on the verdant earth!

I haven't the leisure to stop and tell
What other pains and evils befell
The defenceless tenants of wood and dell;
All wrought by an urchin's uncurbed will,
At length as an evening fair and still,
Shone over the wood, Bob strolled beyond
The wooded glades to a quiet pond,
The home of eels, mud-fishes, and things
Half frog, half fish, all covered with stings,
And scaly armor, as bright as brass;
Then and there, reader, it came to pass
That a terrapin, lazily crawling o'er
The moistened ways of its native shore,
Bob shrewdly captured—he turned his back
Heedfully down on the sandy track,
And—need we say it?—at once began
To practise as ever, his teasing plan.
He pinched the flesh of the terrapin sore
Racked it behind, and racked it before;
And strove—tho' just with a touch of awe,
The reptile's head from its shell to draw.
When hark! the sound of a vicious snap!
And the juvenile's fingers were in a trap
As ruthless as fate, and as sharp as steel;
Then, followed a piteous discord! Squeal,
Bellow, and shriek, the echoes around,
Woke up from the startled wave and ground.
Bob struggled and panted, kicked and cried,
Yet, his enemy's hold all efforts defied;

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He thought to rise, but he would not do it,
For fear that his mangled flesh might rue it;
And still more agonized, angry, and loud,
His yells went up to a whirling cloud,
Which in a moment from out the blue,
(Or such was his fancy), darker grew,
Whence peered a head and a face to fear;
But what shall I say of the monster's leer.
His huge mouth stretching from ear to ear?

“You have tortured,” (it said) “and torn all day
God's helpless creatures in wanton play;
Now, learn, oh! cruel and coward elf!
A useful lesson of pain, yourself!
Does it burn and sting to the deepest nerve?
What less do your brutal deeds deserve?
How! groaning again! for shame! be done!
You only tortured, you know,—in fun!”

When he gained from the terrapin's clutch release
While resting, that night, on his couch in peace,
There softly dawned thro' the twilight gloom,
A face more fair than a white-rose bloom;
And a voice that seemed like the under speech
Of the waters that swoon on a breezeless beach,
Whispered as low as low could be;
“Look up! I charge thee! and worship me;
And yet not me, but the Master—Christ!
“My name is Pity!—I am enticed
From even the Heaven of Heavens to bring
Soft balms for mortal suffering;
And whosoever the frailest thing
With strength within it to feel or love,
Wounds here—he is torturing me above;
And worse—for the pangs of that anguish dart
Through mine, to the tender Saviour's heart!”

Silence!—but just as sleep was won,
And over the boy's bright eyes of brown,
The delicate lashes came drooping down,
Thro' the silvery eddies of moonlight mist,
There stole the shadow of lips that kissed
The stain from the childish soul away,
That sadly sinning, had deemed it—play!