University of Virginia Library

I.

Somewhere in merry England
(The time was long ago),
There lived a little maiden,
Whose story you shall know.
She came of simple people,
Whose homely cottage stood,
With a slip of garden near it,
Against an ancient wood.
Her father,—he made fagots,
The firewood of the poor,
While her mother sat a-spinning
Beside the cottage door.
There she lived, and there she grew,
As the country children do;
Eight years old, and fair as good,
The little maid, Red Riding-Hood.

II.

They rose while she was sleeping,
And her father trudged away,
With his axe upon his shoulder,
Before the break of day;
Her mother scoured the platters,
And set beside her bed
A cup of sweetest honey,
And the freshest crust of bread;
Then went about her spinning
As softly as she could,
But the old wheel's endless humming
Woke little Riding-Hood,
Who rubbed her rosy eyelids,
And started up in glee:
“What, is it you, dear mother?
I thought it was a bee!”
“They should be bees, and busy, too,
Who have a many drones like you.”
She shook her head: “It isn't good
To say such things of Riding-Hood.”

III.

She had an aged grandmother
This pretty little may,
Dwelling within the forest,
A league or more away;
Who, on her eighth sweet birthday,
When leaves began to fall,
Gave her a riding-habit,
With a ruffled hood and all.
And O, but it was bonny
To see it on her head;
Why, when she walked i' th' garden,
The rose was not so red!
And when the neighbors spied it,
Like morning through the wood,
They said to one another,
“Here comes Red Riding-Hood.”
Such the name the darling bore,
From the scarlet hood she wore;
For her christened name it stood—
She was known as Riding-Hood.

IV.

“Rise up, rise up, my daughter,”
One morn her mother said,
“For you must go to Granny's,
I hear she's sick abed;
A pat of nice fresh butter
Will do the poor soul good.”
“And let me send my honey,”
Said little Riding-Hood.
The churn goes fast, and faster,
The pat of butter's made,
And with a pot of honey
Is in a basket laid.
The loving child is ready,
Behold her where she stands,
In her pretty riding-habit,
The basket in her hands;
Beneath the morning-glories
That drape the cottage door,
She lingers for a moment,
To con her message o'er.
“We heard that she was ailing,
And I have brought her this;
And father's very sorry,
And mother sends a kiss.”
Here she hears her mother say,
“Daughter must n't stop to play.”
And she answers, “I'll be good
Or my name's not Riding-Hood.”

V.

Along the winding pathway
The merry maiden went,
So light her tripping footsteps
The grass was hardly bent!
'Twas strung with silver dew-drops,
With spider webs o'erspread,
Like sheets of linen, bleaching
For Mab, the fairy's, bed.
At length she reached the forest,
A still and dreamy place,
Whose brooding shadows darkened
The beauty of her face;
Save where the morning struggled
In long and golden lines.
The narrow path was slippery
With needles of the pines;
Ferns grew along its borders,
And vines were stretched across,
And here were spotted toadstools,
And there were beds of moss
By bush, and brier, and bramble,
She glided like a shade,
Nor made the dry leaves rustle,
Nor any thing afraid.
The robins fed their young ones,
The rabbits never knew
The tripping of her footsteps
From the dripping of the dew!
But where the wood grew darker,
So dense the roof o'erhead,
Besides her pattering footfall
There was a heavy tread,
That made the dead leaves rattle,
That crushed the tender flowers,
That brushed the low-hung branches,
And shook the dew in showers!
Who was it stole behind her?
What tracked her through the wood?
It was a wolf that followed
The helpless Riding-Hood!
She turned her head and saw him,
And stood stock still with fear,
So fierce his eyes and cruel,
And his sharp teeth so near!
“I wonder will he kill me?”
Thought little Riding-Hood;
“He knows I never harmed him,
And would not if I could.”
“She'll make a dainty morsel,”
He muttered in reply;
“Shall I eat her where she's standing?
Or wait till by and by?”
While thus he was debating,
But certain of his prey,
She snatched her fallen basket,
And hurried on her way.
Where the tangled pathway wound;
Past the trees that shut around;
Through the thick and gloomy wood
Went the wolf and Riding-Hood.

VI.

At last the sound of voices
Was indistinctly heard;
Or was it but the halloo
Of some half-human bird?
It was the fagot-makers,
At work within the wood,
About the path where wandered
The wolf and Riding-Hood.
The creature heard them talking,
And slacked at once his pace;
It would not do to chase her
In such an open place:
You would have thought to see him—
“How could she be afraid!
It is a good old house-dog
That loves the little maid.”
They met a fagot-maker,
Who chopped a fallen bough:
“Red Riding-Hood, good morning,
Where are you going now?”
She stopped, and swung her basket
With pretty shame, and said:
“I'm going, sir, to Granny's,
For she is sick abed,”
Meantime the wolf comes closer,
To see how matters stand:
He rubs his head against her,
He tries to lick her hand!
“Why, here's a wolf,” they shouted,
And hastened at the sight:
“I think it is the villain
That stole my sheep last night.”
“Upon my honor, gentlemen,
I never in my life”—
One raised his axe, with “Kill him!”
Another drew his knife:
“Pray don't! he mayn't be guilty,”
Cried tender Riding-Hood;
“I'm sure he didn't harm me,
When I was in the wood.”
“For your sake then we spare him,
He owes his life to you;
But if more sheep are missing,
We'll all know what to do.”
Back to their work they plodded,
With many a look behind.
“A thousand thanks, my lady,”
The cunning creature whined:
“I'll not forget your kindness,
Indeed, you are too good;
But now I must be going,
Adieu, sweet Riding-Hood.”
He trotted towards the forest,
But soon came back and said:
“The Grandmamma you spoke of,
I think, is sick abed.
Poor soul!”—he sighed for pity,
“Where lives the good old dame?”
“You see that littlè cottage,
Whose windows are a-flame?
With jessamines and woodbines
The porch is covered o'er”—
“And, pray, how do you enter?”
“By tapping at the door,
And Granny then will tell you
(But you must hark to hear),
That you must pull the latch-string;
She'll say, ‘Come in, my dear.’”
“Pull the string, and then you're in;
Worldly wits are sure to win.”
He took a short cut through the wood,
Laughing at Red Riding-Hood.

VII.

Red Riding-Hood was troubled,
Not knowing what he meant;
And, glad that he had vanished,
She wondered where he went.
But brief the stay of sorrow
In such a childish mind;
A cloud the wind is chasing,
That leaves no trace behind!
The path led through a meadow,
Where flowers so thickly grew
You knew not which were thickest,
The flowers, or the dew!
They flaunted in the sunshine,
They hid in shady nooks,
They clambered through the grasses,
They dipped along the brooks.
“I'll gather some for Granny,”
Said Riding-Hood anon,
Stooping to save a blossom
She nearly trod upon:
She picked a lady-slipper,
Was larger than her own;
She stripped a royal rose-tree
Of all the buds were blown:
Handfuls of yellow cowslips,
Whose cups are full of spots;
And knots of frail sweet-purples,
And dear forget-me-nots:
The daisy, and the primrose,
The rustic marigold—
She heaped her little apron
As full as it would hold!
Then, tired with her sweet labor,
She sat beneath a tree,
To sort her dewy treasures,
As busy as a bee.
She made a pretty nosegay,
Of posies white and red,
To fill the earthen pitcher
That stood by Granny's bed:
She bound a bunch of violets,
And lilies of the vale.
With a rose that was the sweetheart
Of the noble nightingale:
She wove a wreath of purples
In many a curious twine,
With glossy leaves of ivy,
And tendrils of the vine:
And while her twinkling fingers
Were braiding bud and flower,
The lark, the morning's watchman,
Was singing in his tower;
High up above the meadow
Where lay his grassy nest,
Where slept the glassy river,
No ripple on its breast:
Where slid the snake, where burrowed
The rabbit and the mole,
And where the tiny field-mouse
Was peeping from his hole!
As she was idly watching
Their labor and their play,
A wasp, abroad for honey,
Came buzzing on his way.
He struck the trail of odor
That floated in the air,
And followed it as surely
As does the hound the hare;
Across the dewy meadow,
And through a belt of wood,
Until he reached the apron
Of dear Red Riding-Hood,
In which he darted sharply,
So many and so fine
The flowers whose cups he plundered,
So sweet their honey-wine.
Right well she knew the difference
Between a wasp and bee;
The humming-bee how thrifty—
And what an idler, he!
Yet, seeing God had made him,
She killed him not, but said:
“The thoughtless drone is hungry,
And God would have him fed.”
The wasp buzzed loud, and louder,
As if he understood
Her pity, and was thankful
To good Red Riding-Hood!
She rose that morn so early,
Before the east was red,
She quite forgot her breakfast
Of honey and of bread:
But just as she was starting,
She heard her mother say:
“Here's something for my darling
To eat along the way.”
She drew it from her pocket,
And found it was a cake,
Such as on merry Saints' Days
Her mother used to bake.
There came a hungry robin
As she began to eat,
The sugaréd crumbs to gather
That fell about her feet.
At first he pecked the furthest,
And often stopped in fear,
With many a trembling twitter;
But soon he ventured near;
For wherefore fear a Creature
So gentle to the rest,
Whose dress was like the morning
That burned upon his breast?
And Riding-Hood, who eyed him,
As nigh her hand he stood,—
She loved him that he buried
The Children in the Wood!
And as he pecked and twittered,
“Eat, pretty bird,” said she;
“There still will be a plenty
For Granny and for me.”
“Thanks,” the grateful robin cried;
“Many thanks,” the wasp replied;
Both together: “She is good,
And we love Red Riding-Hood.”

VIII.

By this the child was rested,
And her sweet task was done;
So she arose light-hearted,
And faced once more the sun,
Which now had scaled the forest,
Above the topmost trees:
The birds were singing round her,
And merrily hummed the bees.
It was an ancient woman,
Who stooped beside a brook,
As if she searched for something:
She had a weary look;
Her hair with white was sprinkled,
And her palsied hands she wrung:
She seemed as old as Nature,
That is so old—and young!
“What do you look for, Goody?”
Asked little Riding-Hood,
Who stopped to watch the woman,
And help her, if she could.
“I gather water-cresses,”
The feeble creature said;
“A sorry trade to live by,
It does not give me bread.”
“'Tis hard the wasp and robin
Should have their fill of food,
And she be pinched with hunger,”
Thought tender Riding-Hood,
Who drew from out her pocket
The fragment of her cake,
Rejoicing she had saved it,
For that poor woman's sake!
“Here's something for you, Goody,”
And she led her to a seat;
“I'll pick your water-cresses,
While you sit down and eat.”
Along the glassy water
She went a little space,
Until she found a cluster
That hid her happy face;
The greenest, crispest, coolest,
That drank the sun and rain:
From this she heaped her apron,
And hurried back again.
The old dame smoothed her ringlets,
“I thank you, Riding-Hood.”
Stronger she looked, and younger,
And more erect she stood.
Then, “Meeting the green huntsman,
Bear this,” she charged, “in mind:
Give him my love, and tell him
That game is in the wind.”
“I'll take your message, Madam,”
Red Riding-Hood replied,
Whose little heart with wonder
Was thumping at her side:
Nor was her wonder lessened,
When turning back she found
No sign of that old woman
In all the meadow round!
The woman was a fairy,
Forever young and fair;
Her rags were robes of crystal,
And like the light her hair!
She waved her wand a moment,
And crooned some magic words,
The charm by which she governed
The insects and the birds:
The wasp and robin knew it,
And flew obedient there;
She whispered each his errand,
And vanished in the air!
Red Riding-Hood saw nothing,
For all her looking back,
Except the wasp and robin
That followed on her track;
Until, within a hollow,
She found a stagnant lake,
So stiff with scum no ripple
Could o'er its surface break;
And there was seen the huntsman,
In green from top to toe;
About his waist a bugle,
And in his hand a bow!
He stood so tall and stately,
And not a word he said,
But watched the birds in circles
That wheeled above his head!
“Good morning, Master Huntsman,”
Said little Riding-Hood;
“I met a strange old woman
When I was through the wood,
Who promised I should meet you,
And said that I must mind
And give her love, and tell you,
‘The game is in the wind.’”
As when the wind is blowing,
And trees are bowing round,—
He nodded so, and stooping
He listened at the ground:
(What heard he?—distant voices,
Or but the waters' flow?)
He rose, and took an arrow,
And bent his mighty bow!
What did his strange silence mean?
Who the huntsman clad in green?
Lord of water, or of wood?
It sorely puzzled Riding-Hood.

IX.

Her thoughts outran her footsteps,
And wandered far and near,
Till what at first was wonder,
Was fast becoming fear.
At last she saw the cottage,
Whose windows shone afar,
And flying to its garden,
She found the gate ajar:
She did not stop to close it,
Her heart so gladly beat,
Nor note along the gravel
The marks of stealthy feet!
(By shoon of man or woman
Such prints were never made:
Red Riding-Hood, my darling,
I fear you are betrayed!)
She crossed the patch of garden,
She reached the rustic porch,
Where many a scarlet creeper
Did lift its fiery torch;
Beneath the wedded woodbines
And jessamines she stood,
And spots of sun and shadow
Were falling on her hood.
“Rap! rap!”—her little knuckles
Are tapping at the door;
She hearkens, but for answer
She hears her heart, no more!
“Rap! tap! rap! tap!” still louder,
She bends again her ear:
“Who's there?” And she, “Red Riding—”
A gruff “Come in, my dear.”
She twitched the clicking latch-string,
And pushing back the door,
A streak of moted sunshine
Was shivered on the floor;
Then, heavily and harshly,
The door swung to again,
And the creaking of its hinges
Was like a shriek of pain!
Across the darkened chamber
She stole in growing dread,
Until she gained the bedside,
Where, breathlessly, she said:
“We heard that you were ailing,
And I have brought you this:
And father says he's sorry,
And mother sends a kiss.”
A voice beneath the bed-clothes,
As gruff as gruff could be,
Growled out, “Put down the basket,
And come to bed to me.”
She pulled aside the curtain,
And buried in the bed
There was a rumpled night-cap—
But was it Granny's head?
“How large your ears are, Granny.”
“The more, my love, I hear.”
“How large your eyes are, Granny.”
“The more I see, my dear.”
“How large your teeth are, Granny.”
“So much the more I eat;
And you, you silly chitling,
Will make a morsel sweet!
Prepare!” It was not Granny
That sprang at Riding-Hood;
It was the wolf that chased her
When she was in the wood!
Nor had he missed the darling,
Who knelt to him in vain,
But for the wasp that stung him,
Until he howled with pain!
And the robin at the window,
Another watchman near,—
He flew to the green huntsman,
And twittered in his ear,
“Red Riding-Hood's in danger,”
And by his magic art
He shot a mighty arrow,
That cleft the monster's heart!
Red Riding-Hood, the darling,
So strangely snatched from death,
She laughed and cried together—
Was all things in a breath!
But who came now? 'Twas Granny,
Whose turn of illness past,
Had been to see a neighbor,
And had returned at last!
“No need to tell the story,
I know it all by this.”
Twas “Granny” then, and “Sweetest,”
And many a hug and kiss!
They kissed and smiled, but tears would rise
In sudden drops to Granny's eyes:
“Such peril, and to one so good!”
“The wolf is dead!” said Riding-Hood.