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Aunt Carry's ballads for children

By the Honourable Mrs. Norton. Adventures of a Wood Sprite. The Story of Blanche and Brutikin. With illustrations by John Absolon

Norton, Caroline Sheridan (1808-1877)

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ADVENTURES OF A WOOD SPRITE,

THE STORY OF BLANCHE AND BRUTIKIN.

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ADVENTURES OF A WOOD SPRITE,

OR THE FAIRY OF THE HAWTHORN TREE.

Once on a time, on a Summer's day,
When mowers were tossing the new made hay,
And children were playing in garden bowers,
And butterflies flitting among the flowers,
And dragon-flies darting here and there,
All gold and green in the sunny air:
A Hawthorn tree, that so long had stood,
Its trunk was all gnarled and knotted wood,

And its bark half covered with lichen and moss,
Was cut down, to make a new path across
The gentleman's lawn where it sheltered so long
The Tom-tit's nest, and the Robin's song:
Woe is me! Ah! woe is me,
A Wood-sprite lived in that Hawthorn tree!

In every tree a Wood-sprite lives:
With the tree, it suffers, or thrives;
And if the tree be cut suddenly down,
The Sprite has no longer a home of its own,
Nor a shelter to hide its head from the storm,
Nor a place in winter to keep it warm.
They are very timid, and when they spy
Men or children approaching nigh,

Quick, they get into the hollow bole,
As a frightened rabbit skips back to its hole;
And seldom indeed, in the broad noonday,
Can these little creatures be seen at play:
But at night, in the moonlight, they all come out;
They frisk, they laugh, they frolic about;
From the slender branches they twist and swing,
Or they all take hands in a Fairy ring.
And where their little quick feet have been,
The grass becomes of a fresher green:
When you walk out, you are sure to know,
The spots where those little feet come and go,
For wherever a circle of green looks bright
There, the Wood-fairies danced last night.
But woe is me, ah! woe is me!
For the fairy that lived in that Hawthorn tree!

When first she heard the woodman come
And hack the bark, outside her home,
Her heart beat quick; and she lay quite close,
Only once peeped out the tip of her nose
To see what the man could be about,
Knocking away, with such noise and rout:
When the sharp hatchet went through the wood,
Amazed, and trembling, there she stood;
But when the trunk began to crash,
Out she leapt, with a sudden dash,
And hop, skip, jump, away she ran,
Round the hatchet, over the man,
Who thought he saw a white rabbit pass,
As she flitted over the sunny grass.

Fast she ran: and she kept away
All the morning, and all the day;

But when the sun had set in the West,
And every bird was asleep in its nest,
And little children were lying, warm;
The least of all, on the nurse's arm,
And the others, in cots, and cribs, and beds,
With cozy pillows beneath their heads:
Back the poor little Wood-sprite came,
Weak and weary, sick and lame;
Back she came, in the pale moon's light,
And sate there crying and sobbing all night!
Round and round the stump of the tree
Where her happy home used once to be,
She wandered; sorrowful, faint, forlorn;
Till the sun rose up for another morn,
And people who heard her wailing cry
Thought that the wind was sweeping by,
While leaning down, on a branch that broke,
Thus the poor little Fairy spoke:

“Oh! my tree, that I loved so well!
Oh! my home, where I used to dwell!
Pleasant branches! where perfumed flowers
Blew in the Spring-time's sunny hours;
Where, in the Summer, all day long,
The birds sate trilling a merry song,
And the squirrel looked, with his big brown eyes,
Down at the earth, and up at the skies:
Pleasant branches! whose green leaves made
In the warmth of Summer a cool sweet shade,
And a thick soft shelter, when Autumn rain
Came pattering down on the boughs, in vain:
Where icicles hung, and frosty rime,
Like diamonds and glass, in the winter time,
And bunches of ripe red berries gave
Food such as Robin Redbreasts crave:

Woe is me! ah! woe is me!
Why did they cut down my Hawthorn tree?”

Then she thought sadly; what could she do,
Without a home in a tree that grew?
And she went to the Wood-sprites she knew the best,
And begged them for shelter, warmth, and rest:
But though, for a time, they let her come,
They could not give her a settled home:
There was no room but for those, they said,
Who in the trees were born and bred:
And she could'nt expect they would strip themselves
And their own little brood of lovely elves!

The proud Wood-sprite in the stately Beech,
Made her a haughty angry speech,

Wondering how she could dare to apply
To a tree so gracefully tall and high:
The strong Oak gave her leave to creep
Into his huge old trunk, to sleep,
While his daughters went to dance and play
But when they returned, she must wend her way:
The rustling Poplars, whose grey leaves quiver,
The sharp-leaved Willows, down by the river,
The soft green Limes, (those honeyed trees,
Where in June you hear the murmuring bees,)
The stiff Scotch Fir, whose brown trunk shines,
So golden bright when the sun declines,
The silver Birch, and the gentle Larch,
The Sycamore with its stately arch,
The Elm, and the lovely Mountain Ash
Which bends where the falling torrents dash,
With its fan-like leaves so long and light,
And its bunches of berries red and bright,

Each and all, forsook her, although
They told her they loved her, long ago,
When her white May-flowers scented the breeze
And made the air pleasant to all the trees:
When the Hawthorn tree was not yet cut down,
And the little Wood-Sprite had a home of her own!

Yet she did pretty well, till Winter came.
Humble and lowly, she took with shame
Whatever shelter the trees would give,
To help her without a home to live.
But one wild night, in a cold November,
(Oh! night whose grief she must aye remember!)
When the whistling wind howled cold and loud,
And the moon was hid in a mass of cloud,
And the sudden gusts of the driven rain
Beat like hail on the window-pane,

In that drear night, of darkest horror,
The Wood-sprite found, with anxious terror,
Every tree was shut and closed;
And of all the fairies who there reposed,
Not one could spare her a jot of room;
They left her, at last, to her dreadful doom!
The strong wind carried her off the ground,
Beat her, and hurled her, and swung her round;
Lifted her up in the sleety air;
Wafted her here, and drifted her there;
In vain she struggled, with piercing shriek,
The wind was mighty, and she was weak;
Out of the wood, away it bore her,
Where valley and hill lay stretched before her,
Over the villages, over the towns,
Over the long smooth Dorsetshire downs,
Many a breathless terrified mile,
Till, past even Weymouth, and Portland Isle,

Woe is me! Ah! woe is me,
The little Wood-sprite was blown out to sea!

She sank, half dead, in the cold green wave;
But the Mermaids who sate in a rocky cave,
(Little creatures who live in the sea
As the Wood-sprite lived in the Hawthorn tree;
Who drink out of shells, and braid their hair
With pearls and coral so rich and rare;
Who swim like fishes, but dive away
If they think that men look on at their play);
These little Sea-creatures pitied her case
When they looked on her pale and weary face,
And seeing she was but a Land-sprite's daughter,
And could not live in the cold blue water,
They lifted her gently up in their arms,
Striving to quiet her wild alarms;

And they swam with her, all that stormy night,
Till they put her on shore in the Isle of Wight.

The storm went down: and calm and still
The red sun rose upon Fairy Hill,
(A place where the Mermaids love to play
On the smooth sand edging the tiny bay.)
And the Wood-sprite sate alone once more
And looked about on the quiet shore.
She saw the white-sailed ships go by,
And she sighed, with a heavy grievous sigh;
To think that whatever wind might blow
She had no home to which she might go:
No one to help her, no one to care
If she died of hunger, and sick despair!

Now, down on the shore by Fairy Hill,
Some Fir-trees grew, (and they grow there still!)
The Wood-sprite that owned them was strong and kind,
And he heard her sigh on the moaning wind;
And started out of his clump of trees
To give the poor Hawthorn Fairy ease.

He laid some berries down on a stone;
And he gathered his fir-cones, one by one,
And broke them, and picked the freshest seed
And fed the poor little sprite at her need.
And when she was better, and grew more gay,
He carried her down with the waves to play;
And when the Queen's yacht was leaving Ryde,
With a fair fresh wind, and a flowing tide,
What do you think this Wood-spirit did?
In one of the sails of the yacht he hid,

With the Hawthorn Fairy, safe and sound,
While his strong arm held her firmly round,
For fear the storm should come again
And carry her out on the foaming main.

And when they reached land, he bore her on
From the dawn of day, till the set of sun.
To an old, old Oak, in Windsor Park,
In whose hollow trunk, so wide and dark,
Fifty Wood-sprites live and play,
Who welcomed her, like a holiday!

And there she lives; and if you could know
The moment, exactly, you ought to go,
And could just get leave to be out at night,
You might see them dance in the clear moon's light;
Where they hop, and leap, and frisk, and spring,
And mark the grass with a Fairy Ring!

And let all kind gentlemen warning take
For this poor little Wood-sprite's mournful sake;
And when any new paths are marked and planned,
And the woodman comes with his axe in his hand,
To cut down some Hawthorn that long has stood,
And drive its Fairy out in the wood,
Let him have strict orders to plant anew
A young tree, near where the old tree grew,
To shelter the Sprite from day to day,
That she may not by storms be blown away.

Gnarled: rough, knotty bark of a tree.

Lichen: a sort of gray moss on old wood.

Bole: The stem of the tree.

Elves: Fairies.

Fairy Hill: a place in the Isle of Wight, near Ryde, and opposite Portsmouth.

THE STORY OF BLANCHE AND BRUTIKIN.

TO MY DEAR LITTLE NEPHEW, BRINSLEY SHERIDAN, OF FRAMPTON, DORSETSHIRE, THIS STORY IS DEDICATED BY “AUNT CARRY.”

In a lone cottage, long ago,
Upon a dreary Moor,
While the wind whistled, bleak and sad,
Beyond the well-closed door;
Sick unto death, a Shepherd lay,
His two young children near,
And feeble was the dying voice
Those children strove to hear.
All that the wise old Shepherd said,
I scarce have time to tell;
He bade his children pray to God,
And love each other well;

He bade them guard his flocks by night,
From hungry wolves that prowled;
And shelter them in wintry hours,
When storm-winds moaned and howled;
And through the rich green valley,
And up the sunny hill,
Lead them in summer time to drink
Beside the mountain rill:
And well and faithfully obey
These clear and plain commands,
Till the great Lord of the Manor,
Came back from foreign lands.

He bade them humbly trust in God,
And in their Bible read,
That the Father of the Fatherless
Might help them at their need:

And carefully repair and keep,
That they might safely dwell,
Two houses he had built for them,
When he was strong and well:
Two small neat houses, side by side,
With windows set in each;
And roses growing round the door,
Which little hands might reach.
And thus the good old Shepherd died;
And left his children lone;
And they buried him, and carved his name
Upon a church-yard stone.

Then both these Orphans grieved: and both
Intended to obey
The gentle loving words they heard
The dying Shepherd say,

But one was selfish, lazy, rude;
Unfit for steady life;
Hard to persuade, or teach, or guide;
And prone to brawling strife.
And in a few short days he broke
The promises he made
To that dear Father who was gone,
And in the grave-yard laid.
Unlike his gentle sister Blanche,
Who, dutiful and meek,
Did all, as if she still could hear
That kind old Father speak.

In the clear morning still she rose,
And said her usual prayers,
And cheerfully she plodded through
Her many household cares;

And led the flock her Father left,
To feed upon the hill;
And guided them at sunset,
To the bubbling silver rill;
And put them safe in fold at night,
And left the watch-dog nigh,
That at his honest angry bark
The coward wolf might fly.
And trained the woodbines, higher yet,
Upon the cottage wall,
And pruned the roses, where they grew,
So sweet and fresh and tall;
And planted flowers, and strawberries,
In her small plot of ground,
And painted all the railing green,
That fenced her garden round:
While a little Pet Lamb followed
All her steps where'er she went,

And strangers said, you scarce could tell,
Which looked most innocent.
And every Sabbath when the bell's
Sweet chime was on the air,
She rested from her work, and kept
God's Holiday of Prayer.
And walked along the lone hill-side,
Through pleasant paths she knew,
Where primroses, and violets,
And lovely harebells grew;
Across the valley to the Church,
Where tuneful hymns were sung,
And the grave Preacher taught the Word,
To hearts of old and young.
And there, she too, sang hymns and prayed;
And when the Church was o'er,
Went home again with cheerful heart,
Across the dreary Moor.

So little Blanche passed harmlessly
A life of happy hours,
And bright and beautiful she grew,
Like one of her own flowers!

Her Brother's name was Brutikin:
Rough, shaggy, was his hair,
And scowling dark his sullen face,
As hers was soft and fair;
And rugged was his angry speech;
And his neglected dress,
Like a poor wandering beggar's,
Soiled with dirt and with distress.
His foolish wayward life, alas!
In different mood was spent;
No cheerful happy days had he,
But darkest discontent;

The morning came, the glorious Sun
Shone out and bid him rise;
But never found him glad to lift
His dim unwilling eyes:
Like the dull Sluggard in the hymn,
He turned his heavy head,
And snored away the early hours,
Still lingering in his bed;
And when at last he rose, unwashed,
And forth his way he took,
(With yawning mouth, and stretching arms,
And lazy vacant look,)
Nothing of useful or of good,
He did, the livelong day;
But in the sunshine sauntered out,
To loiter and to play.
He led a careless, useless life,
Of dull and sinful sloth,

Leaving to little Blanche the tasks
Their Father meant for both;
And never helped her, howsoe'er
Her weaker arms might tire,
When carrying heavy logs of wood
To light the winter fire;
Nor walked beside her to the fold,
When dim the evening light,
And wolves went howling o'er the snow,
And filled her with affright.
He never said a prayer at morn,
Nor when the Sabbath came;
His heart was callous to reproof,
And dead to sense of shame;
The little that he once had learnt,
Kept fading from his mind,
As shores grow dim, to those at sea,
When land is far behind;

And for the house his Father built,—
Untended,—unrepaired,
It rotted, broke, and fell away,
He neither knew nor cared.
The window panes were cracked with stones;
The roof was falling in;
The thatch was damp with moss and dirt;
The rose-trees dead and thin;
The garden waste and trodden down,
Where nettles choked the flowers;
Where pools of stagnant water kept
The rain of many showers;
Where odious yellow toad-stools mixed
With blades of rankest grass;
Where broken palings, half sunk down,
Let rats and weazels pass;
Where nothing good, and nothing bright,
And nothing pleasant grew;

But a damp, unwholesome smell rose up
With every wind that blew.
A dismal pigsty of a place,
That once was neat and trim;
Now spoilt, defaced, and blotted out,
With strange defect, like him!

But while his cottage thus remained,
Untouched by lazy hands,
The great Lord of the Manor
Returned from foreign lands!
Through the green Valley, up the Hill,
Across the barren Moor,
His proud steed bore him bravely on,
Past many a cottage door;
And Blanche's house, so thrifty neat,
The great Lord now has seen;

The pretty woodbined trellis-work,
The palings fresh and green;
But who shall tell the proud contempt,
The anger and surprise,
When the broken home of Brutikin
First met his searching eyes!
Beneath its crooked, crumbling porch,—
Half in the open air,
Stood sulky Brutikin himself,
With stupid vacant stare;
Watching to see the show go by;
Without a bow or sign;
To see the great Lord's glossy horse,
With housings rich and fine;
The Foresters with silver spears,
And velvet green array;
And the servitors in scarlet coats
To tend him on his way.

Without a bow, stood Brutikin,
And watched them onward pass,
Like a poor gipsy's cur that stares
From out the hedgerow grass.
“Great Heaven,” said the stately Lord,
“What shaggy thing is this?
“I never saw a creature yet,
“With manners so amiss!
“And wherefore this unsightly hut,
“Reared up against a tree?
“Clear it away before the dawn,
“For here it shall not be.”
But, as he proudly spoke these words,
And spurred his horse to go,
Out of the other house came Blanche,
And curtsied humbly low.
And as the great Lord saw her stand,
The Pet Lamb by her side,

He looked at her and kindly smiled,
And checked his eager ride.
While modestly, though earnestly,
She begged a fortnight's grace,
That Brutikin might yet repair
That spoiled and broken place!
And the great Lord granted what she asked,
And then rode on in state,
Nor paused till he dismounted
At his own Ancestral gate.

Then clasping both her hands, Poor Blanche,
Bad Brutikin adjured,
To do his long neglected tasks,
While yet that grace endured.
But fiercely Brutikin struck down
The palings where she stood,

Till in his sister's face he sent
The splints of rotten wood:
“And do you dare to lecture me?”
He passionately said:
“Get in! or I will make you hide
“Your bold presumptuous head.
“I will obey no Lord, not I,
“Nor mend the hut's low door;
“Nor stay here to be bullied
“On this bleak and dreary Moor;
“I'll seek another Lord to serve,
“Another happier land;
“You! grovel servile as you will,
“Beneath a servile band!”
Then, right across the garden-rail,
He swung a lump of mould;
If it had reached his Sister's head,
Her death-knell had been tolled;

But she ran in, and hid herself,
And sate her down and wept,
And meekly prayed for Brutikin
That night before she slept.

Next morning Brutikin set forth:
And wandered on alone,
Till the winter sun-light faded,
And the day went coldly down:
Till the winter sun-light faded,
And the snow began to fall;
Noiseless, and feathery, and soft;
But slowly covering all!
The clouds above grew leaden dark;
The path below grew white:
The track across the dreary Moor,
Was hidden from his sight!

Great fear came over Brutikin:
His heart beat quick and fast:
He looked on all sides for relief,
But no one journeyed past.
The Sign-post, with its silent hands,
Kept pointing out the road,
Which would have led him safely back
To Blanche's neat abode:
His frightened eyes were fixed on it;
But he had given small heed
To lessons which his Father left,
To teach his son to read;
And vainly, at that silent guide,
He looked and longed to know
Which way his weary feet should tread
The pathless waste of snow.
Then, lectures half-remembered—
With voices good and kind,

Came back, imperfect and confused,
To that poor wanderer's mind:
Much came, but nothing clearly;
He strove to summon back
Something his Father used to say
About the Eastward Track:
About the Sun-rise, and his home;
The Shepherds, and the Star;
And how to tell his certain road,
When wandering afar.
But more and more bewildered still,
He grew, and faint with fears,
While the sharp wind, with a moaning sound,
Came whistling in his ears.

Ah! little Blanche, had she been there,
Had prompted every word,

For well that sweet child treasured up
Whatever good she heard:
She could have tracked her homeward path,
Through all that waste of snow,
And as her father told it then,
She could have told it now;
How in the East, the glorious East,
The lovely garden lay,
Where Paradise was planted,
In Creation's dawning day;
How, in the East, the Angel stood,
With bright and flaming sword,
When, driven from the first fair home
Appointed by the Lord,
Sad Adam wandered forth with Eve,
To earn his bread by toil,
And till, in a more gloomy world,
A hard ungrateful soil!

How, in the East, the glorious East,
A second Hope arose,
Whose Promise still abides with man,
Until existence close;
The Star, the wondrous Star, which shone
With clear and holy light,
By simple Shepherds first beheld,
Who watched their flocks by night;
When wise men journeying from the East,
With gifts of precious worth,
Did homage to the Child divine,
The Saviour of the Earth!
How, every morning, in the East,
The Sun awakes and gives
Light, warmth, and glory unto all,
The meanest thing that lives:
And like God's Mercy, looking down,
Its beams of radiance know

No difference 'twixt rich and poor;
No rule of high and low.
How, finally, their home was built,
Right in the Eastward Track:
And following still the Eastward path,
Would bring them safely back!

But Brutikin forgot it all!
His Father's dear behest!
His memory would not serve to tell
His journey East or West:
Bewildered, shuddering, cold he stood;
Each hour more faint and chill;
And snow came drifting with the wind
That whistled down the hill.
Then, like the Prodigal, his heart,
To slow repentance woke;

And from his sad despairing lips,
A cry of anguish broke:
“How many duteous children, now,
“Are sleeping safe and warm,
“While I, by my rebellion made
“An exile in the storm,
“Must perish in this lonely place,
“And no one ever know
“How dismal was the death I died,
“Upon this waste of snow!”
Even while he spoke, his veins grew chill;
He sank upon the ground;
He heard no more the winter wind
That howled and moaned around.
A horrid drowsiness came on;
A painful freezing sleep:
He could not breathe; he could not call;
He could not speak or weep.

The snowflakes, on his helpless limbs,
Fell faster than before,
And in the snow-drift, lost he lay,—
Upon the Dreary Moor!

Oh, gentle Blanche! Oh, patient Blanche!
Where were you in that hour?
Close by, close by, and struggling on,
Against that freezing shower.
Well did she heed the sign-post near,
The setting sun afar,
And the station in the Heavens above,
Of every silver star.
By these she tracked her way, and brought
Two Foresters so bold,
To help poor wandering Brutikin,
Should he be numbed with cold.

She looks for him across the snow,—
But nothing there she sees
Except the thin and broken boughs
Of stunted leafless trees,
She looks again across the snow,—
But nothing is in sight,
And the dreary Moor looks drearier still,
All hid in solemn white.
She looks again across the snow,—
And lo! a rising mound,
Where the dog of those two Foresters
Is smelling round and round.
The dog barks short, and scratches hard;
The wise brute knows, beneath
That smooth white heap of drifted snow,
Lies human life or death!

The Foresters are digging now,
With pickaxe and with spade,
And Blanche stands by, with anxious heart,
Half hopeful, half afraid:
Till, all at once, the instinct
Of the faithful dog proves true,
And the senseless form of Brutikin,
Uncovered, meets their view!
His eyes are shut; his lips are blue;
His hands are clenched and cold;
His hair is damp in heavy locks,
With snow, and mud, and mould:
And tender Blanche, who yet hath stood
So silent and so meek,
Flings her kind arms around his neck,
And sobs, but cannot speak.
Her big tears fall as fast as rain
Upon his senseless face,

But vain is all her grief, and vain
The warmth of her embrace,
For while they lift him, sideways droops
His cold unconscious head,
And both the Foresters declare
That Brutikin is dead!

But Heaven (long suffering and mild),
Hath mercy yet in store:
His hands unclasp; his eyes unclose;
He lives, he breathes once more!
And with a prayer his frozen tongue
Its feeble speech begins:
“May Heaven have mercy on my soul,
“And pardon all my sins!”

Oh, who shall tell his fervent joy,
When by his side he sees

Dear little patient loving Blanche,
Meek kneeling on her knees!
Oh, who shall tell his fervent joy,
His sense of waking bliss,
When on his cold stiff lips, he feels,
Her gentle kindly kiss!

The Foresters have lifted him,
And by their friendly aid
To Blanche's neat well-ordered home
Is Brutikin conveyed.
Warm milk and honey carefully
By slow degrees they give;
And now the Foresters declare
That Brutikin will live!

He lived, and he repented;
Blanche saw, next morning's sun,

An altered and a better life
By Brutikin begun:
His house in order; all set right;
With many a thankful word
To little loving patient Blanche,
He waits the Manor's Lord.
And when the great Lord came at last,
And saw the work achieved;
All bright, and orderly, and trim,
Where all had shocked and grieved;
He praised poor Brutikin: he praised
His courage and his skill:
His hard work and repentance:
And notified his will
That the Steward of his Lordly lands,
Glad Brutikin should make
Chief Ranger of the Forest,
For little Blanche's sake.

And many a year did Brutikin
Serve that good master well:
And every Christmas, at the time
When drifting snow-showers fell,
He thought upon the fearful day,
When stiff, and blue, and cold,
They dragged him from the snow-drift,
All clogged with mud and mould;
And humbly then, poor Brutikin,
With thankful heart would pray
To God,—who early let him see
The error of his way,—
To give him strength against his faults,
And ever bring him back
From valley green, and dreary Moor,
Into the Eastward Track!

FINIS.