The Treasure Book of Children's Verse - BIRDS AND FLOWERS, BEASTS AND INSECTS (2)
WHO STOLE THE BIRD'S NEST?
" Tu-whit! tu-whit ! tu-whee !
Will you listen to me?
Who stole four eggs I laid,
And the nice nest I made ? "
"Not I," said the cow, " Moo-oo!
Such a thing I'd never do;
I gave you a wisp of hay,
But didn't take your nest away,
Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo!
Such a thing I'd never do."
" Tu-whit! tu-whit! tu-whee !
Will you listen to me?
Who stole four eggs I laid,
And the nice nest I made ? '
Bob-o-link! Bob-o-link!
Now what do you think ?
Who stole a nest away
From the plum-tree to-day?
" Not I," said the dog, " Bow-wow 1
I'm not so mean anyhow!
I gave hairs the nest to make,
But the nest I did not take.
Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow!
I'm not so mean anyhow."
" Tu-whit! tu-whit! tu-whee!
Will you listen to me?
Who stole
four eggs I laid,
And the nice nest I made?"
Bob-o-link! Bob-o-link!
Now what do you think?
Who stole a nest away
From the plum-tree to-day?
" Goo-coo ! Coo-coo ! Goo-coo !
Let me speak a few words
too!
Who stole that pretty nest
From poor little yellow-breast ? "
"Not I," said the sheep,
"Oh no! I wouldn't treat a poor bird
so.
I gave wool the nest to line,
But the nest was none of mine.
Baa!
Baa!" said the sheep,
"Oh no! I wouldn't treat a poor bird so."
" Tu-whit! tu-whit! tu-whee !
Will you listen to me ?
Who
stole four eggs I laid,
And the nice nest I made ?'
Bob-o-link!
Bob-o-link !
Now what do you think?
Who stole a nest away
From the
plum-tree to-day?
"Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Coo-coo!
Let me speak a few words too !
Who stole that pretty nest
From poor little yellow-breast ?'
"Caw! Caw!' cried the crow;
'' I too should like to know
What thief took away
A bird's nest to-day ? "
"Cluck! Cluck!' said the hen;
"Don't ask me again, Why,
I
haven't a chick
Would do such a trick.
We all gave her a feather,
And
she wove them together.
I'd scorn to intrude
On her and her brood.
Cluck! Cluck!" said the hen,
"Don't ask me again !' "
" Ghirr-a-whirr! Chirr-a-whirr!
All the birds make a stir!
Let us find out his name,
And all cry 'For shame !' "
" I would not rob a bird,
" Said little Mary Green;
"I think I never heard
Of anything so mean."
"It is very cruel too,"
Said little Alice Neal;
"I wonder if he knew
How sad the bird would feel ?"
A little boy hung down his head,
And went and hid behind the
bed,
For he stole that pretty nest
From poor little yellow-breast;
And
he felt so full of shame,
He didn't like to tell his name.
MARIA L. CHILD.
THE SPIDER AND THE FLY.
" Will you walk into my parlour?' said the Spider to the
Fly,—
"'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;
The way
into my parlour is up a winding stair,
And I have many curious things to
show when you are there."
"Oh, no, no," said the little Fly, "to ask
me is in vain,
For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down
again."
"I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high;
"
Will you rest upon my little bed? " said the Spider to the Fly,
"There
are pretty curtains drawn around, the sheets are fine and thin,
And if you like to rest a while, I'll snugly tuck you in!'
"Oh, no, no," said the little Fly, "for I've often heard it said,
They
never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!'
Said the cunning Spider to the Fly: "Dear friend, what can I do
To prove the warm affection I've always felt for you?
I have,
within my pantry, good store of all that's nice ;
I'm sure you're very
welcome—will you please to take a slice ?'
"Oh, no, no," said the
little Fly, "kind sir, that cannot be,
I've heard what's in your
pantry, and I do not wish to see!'
"Sweet creature," said the Spider, "you're witty and you're wise!
How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!
I have a little looking-glass upon my parlour-shelf,
If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself."
"I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "for what you're pleased to say,
And bidding you good-morning now, I'll call another day."
The Spider turned him round about, and went into his den,
For
well he knew the silly Fly would soon come back again;
So he wove a
subtle web in a little corner sly,
And set his table ready, to dine upon
the Fly.
Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did
sing,—
" Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and
silver wing;
Your robes are green and purple, there's a crest upon your head ;
Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead I"
Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly,
Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by:
With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew,—
Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue,
Thinking only of her crested head—poor foolish thing! At last,
Up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her fast;
He
dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den,
Within his little
parlour—but she ne'er came out again!
And now, dear little children,
who may this story read,
To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you,
ne'er give heed :
Unto an evil counsellor close heart, and ear, and eye,
And take a lesson from this tale, of the Spider and the Fly.
MARY HOWITT.
THE PET LAMB
The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink ;
I heard a voice; it said, "Drink, pretty creature, drink!
And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied
A snow-white mountain-lamb, with a Maiden at its side.
No other sheep were near; the lamb was all alone,
And by a
slender cord was tethered to a stone ;
With one knee on the grass did
the little Maiden kneel,
While to that mountain-lamb she gave its
evening meal.
The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took,
Seemed to feast with head and ears; and his tail with pleasure shook.
"Drink, pretty creature, drink," she said in such a tone,
That I almost received her heart into my own.
' Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare!
I
watched them with delight, they were a lovely pair.
Now with her empty
can the Maiden turned away;
But ere ten yards were gone, her footsteps
did she stay.
Towards the lamb she looked, and from that shady place
I,
unobserved, could see the working of her face:
If Nature to her tongue
could measured numbers bring,
Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little
Maid might sing:
"What ails thee, Young One? what? Why pull so at thy cord?
Is it not well with thee? well both for bed and board?
Thy
plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be;
Rest, little Young
One, rest; what is't that aileth thee ?
"What is it thou wouldst seek? What is wanting to thy heart ?
Thy limbs, are they not strong ? And beautiful thou art:
This grass is tender grass; these flowers they have no peers;
And that
green corn all day is rustling in thy ears!
" If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain,
This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst gain ;
For rain and
mountain-storms, the like thou need'st not fear,
The rain and storm are
things that scarcely can come here.
"Rest, little Young One, rest; thou hast forgot the day
When my
father found thee first in places far away;
Many flocks were on the
hills, but thou wert owned by none;
And thy mother from thy side for
evermore was gone.
"He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home:
A
blessed day for thee! then whither wouldst thou roam ?
A faithful nurse
thou hast; the dam that did thee yean
Upon the mountain-tops no kinder
could have been.
"Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thee in this can
Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran;
And twice in
the day, when the ground is wet with dew,
I bring thee draughts of
milk, warm milk it is, and new.
"Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now,
Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the plough;
My playmate
thou shalt be; and when the wind is cold,
Our hearth shall be thy bed,
our house shall be thy fold.
"It will not, will not rest!—Poor creature, can it be
That
'tis thy mother's heart which is working so in thee ?
Things that I know
not of belike to thee are dear,
And dreams of things which thou canst
neither see nor hear,
"Alas, the mountain-tops that look so green and fair!
I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there;
The little brooks that seem all pastime and all play,
When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey.
"Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky;
Night and
day thou art safe — our cottage is hard by.
Why bleat so after me?
Why pull so at thy chain?
Sleep — and at break of day I will come to
thee again!"
—As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet,
This song
to myself did I oftentimes repeat;
And it seemed, as I retraced the
ballad line by line,
That but half of it was hers, and one half of it
was mine.
Again, and once again, did I repeat the song;
"Nay,' said I, "more than half to the damsel must belong,
For she looked with such a look, and she spake with such a
tone, That I almost received her heart into my own."
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
THE SUCCESSION OF FOUR SWEET MONTHS
First, April, she with mellow showers
Opens the way for early flowers;
Then after her comes smiling May,
In a more rich and sweet array;
Next enters June, and brings
us more
Gems than those two that went before:
Then (lastly) July comes,
and she
More wealth brings in than all those three.
ROBERT HER-RICK.
BIRDS, BEASTS, AND FISHES
The Dog will come when he is called,
The Gat will walk away;
The Monkey's cheek is very bald;
The Goat is fond of play.
The Parrot is a prate-apace,
Yet knows not what he says ;
The noble Horse will win the race,
Or draw you in a chaise.
The Pig is not a feeder nice,
The Squirrel loves a nut,
The Wolf would eat you in a trice,
The Buzzard's eyes are shut.
The Lark sings high up in the air,
The Linnet in the tree ;
The Swan he has a bosom fair,
And who so proud as he ?
Oh, yes, the Peacock is more proud,
Because his tail has eyes ;
The Lion roars so very loud,
He'd fill you with surprise.
The Raven's coat is shining black,
Or, rather, raven-grey ;
The Camel's bunch is on his back,
The Owl abhors the day.
The Sparrow steals the cherry ripe,
The Elephant is wise,
The Blackbird charms you with his pipe,
The false Hyena cries.
The Hen guards well her little chicks,
The Cow—her hoof is slit;
The Beaver builds with mud and sticks,
The Lapwing cries "Peewit."
The little Wren is very small,
The Humming-bird is less ;
The Ladv-bird is least of all.
And beautiful in dress.
The Pelican she loves her young,
The Stork its parent loves ;
The Woodcock's bill is very long,
And innocent are Doves.
The streaked Tiger's fond of blood,
The Pigeon feeds on peas ;
The Duck will gobble in the mud,
The Mice will eat vour cheese.
A Lobster's black, when boiled he's red.
The harmless Lamb must bleed.
The Cod-fish has a clumsv head,
The Goose on grass will feed.
The lady in her gown of silk,
The little Worm may thank;
The sick man drinks the Ass's milk,
The Weasel's long and lank.
The Buck gives us a venison dish,
When hunted for the spoil ;
The Shark eats up the little fish,
The Whale produces oil.
The Glow-worm shines the darkest night,
With lantern in his tail;
The Turtle is the cit's delight,
And wears a coat of mail.
In Germany they hunt the Boar,
The Bee brings honey home,
The Ant lays up a winter store,
The Bear loves honey-comb.
The Eagle has a crooked beak,
The Plaice has orange spots,
The Starling, if he's taught, will speak ;
The Ostrich walks and trots.
The child that does not these things know
Might well be called a dunce ;
But I in knowledge quick will grow,
For youth can come but once.
ADELAIDE O'KEEFFE.
PUSSY-CAT
Pussy-cat lives in the servants' hall,
She can set up her back, and purr;
The little Mice live in a crack in the wall,
But they hardly dare venture to stir;
For whenever they think of taking the air,
Or filling their little maws,
The Pussy-Cat says, " Come out, if you dare ;
I will catch you all with my claws."
Scrabble, scrabble, scrabble, went all the little Mice,
For they smelt the Cheshire cheese ;
The Pussy-Gat said, "It smells very nice,
Now do come out, if you please."
"Squeak," said the little Mouse ; "Squeak, squeak, squeak,"
Said all the young ones too ;
"We never creep out when cats are about,
Because we're afraid of you."
So the cunning old Gat lay down on a mat,
By the fire in the servants' hall;
"If the little Mice peep, they'll think I'm asleep;"
So she rolled herself up like a ball.
"Squeak," said the little Mouse, "we'll creep out
And eat some Cheshire cheese,
That silly old Cat is asleep on the mat,
And we may sup at our ease."
Nibble, nibble, nibble, went all the little Mice,
And they licked their little paws;
Then the cunning old Cat sprang up from the mat,
And caught them all with her claws.
ANNE HAWKSHAW.
THE BUTTERFLY'S BALL
" Come, take up your hats, and away let us haste
To the
Butterfly's Ball and the Grasshopper's Feast;
The Trumpeter, Gadfly, has
summoned the crew,
And the Revels are now only waiting for you."
So said little Robert, and pacing along,
His merry Companions came forth in a throng,
And on the smooth Grass by the side of a Wood,
Beneath a broad oak that for ages had stood,
Saw the Children of Earth and the Tenants of Air
For an Evening's Amusement together repair.
And there came the Beetle, so blind and so black,
Who carried
the Emmet, his friend, on his back.
And there was the Gnat and the
Dragon-fly too,
With all their Relations, green, orange and blue.
And
there came the Moth, with his plumage of down,
And the Hornet in jacket
of yellow and brown;
Who with him the Wasp, his companion, did bring,
But they promised that evening to lay by their sting.
And the sly little
Dormouse crept out of his hole,
And brought to the Feast his blind
brother, the Mole.
And the Snail, with his horns peeping out of his
shell,
Came from a great distance, the length of an ell.
A Mushroom their Table, and on it was laid
A water-dock
leaf, which a table-cloth made.
The Viands were various, to each of
their taste,
And the Bee brought her honey to crown the Repast.
Then
close on his haunches, so solemn and wise,
The Frog from a corner
looked up to the skies ;
And the Squirrel, well pleased such diversions
to see,
Mounted high overhead and looked down from a tree.
Then out came the Spider, with fingers so fine,
To show his
dexterity on the tight-line.
From one branch to another his cobwebs he
slung,
Then quick as an arrow he darted along.
But just in the middle—oh ! shocking to tell,
From his rope, in an instant, poor Harlequin fell.
Yet he touched not the ground, but with talons outspread,
Hung suspended in air, at the end of a thread.
Then the Grasshopper came with a jerk and a spring,
Very long was his Leg, though but short was his Wing;
He took but three leaps, and was soon out of sight,
Then chirped his own praises the rest of the night.
With step so majestic the Snail did advance;
And promised the Gazers a Minuet to dance ;
But they all laughed so loud that he pulled in his head,
And went in his own little chamber to bed.
Then as Evening gave way to the shadows of Night,
Their Watchman, the Glowworm, came out with a light.
"Then home let us hasten, while yet we can see,
For no
Watchman is waiting for you and for me.
" So said little Robert, and
pacing along,
His merry Companions returned in a throng.
W. ROSCOE.
THE GOLDEN-CRESTED WREN
The smallest bird that can be found,
If you search all England
round,
Everywhere through glade and glen,
Is the golden-crested wren.
Though little, 'tis a brave bird too,
And stays with us the winter
through;
Goes picking here, and hopping there,
And never leaves us all
the year.
When it freezes, when it snows,
When it thaws, and when it
blows,
You still see its little form
Tossed about upon the storm;
Rumpled, crumpled, every feather,
And all backward blown together,
While
it puffs, and pants, and draws
Together close its little claws.
On
some branch or mossy rail,
Turning to the wind its tail.
But if there be
a hole at all,
It can get in—it is so small—
And shelter from the
piercing cold
Its pretty head and crest of gold.
In spring it builds a
little house,
Scarce larger than the harvest mouse;
And in it you'll
find children five,
The size of bees and all alive,
And for all these
she must find bread,
From morning till 'tis time for bed.
And you will
see this little wren,
Works harder far than many men,
Beginning when the
dawn doth peep,
Nor ending till 'tis time to sleep.
Without a minute's
pause or rest,
She carries food into her nest
Near forty times in every
hour.
Through the sunshine and the shower
Food doth she to her young
convey,
For sixteen hours through every day,
Without a moment's time to
play.
Ever coming, ever going,
Never idle, always doing
This a bit, or that a taste;
Then she's off again in haste,
Across the field and by the mill,
Bringing something for each bill —
Bill wide-gaping every minute,
And she dropping something in it.
Such a
hungry family
As a man doth seldom see;
Helpless, and without a feather,
Opening all their mouths together.
As soon as brought the food is
gone.
All the five a-gape like one.
She herself can't get a bit,
There
is such a "twit, twit, twit.
" Though such a family she maintains
Her
weight is scarcely ninety grains :
No smaller bird can there be found,
If you search all England round.
I'm sure that every girl or boy
Will
usefully their time employ,
And be ashamed to idle when
They've read
about this little wren.
T. MILLER.
THE SPIDER AND HIS WIFE
In a dark little crack, half a yard from the ground,
An honest old spider resided ;
So pleasant, and snug, and convenient 'twas found,
That his friends came to see it from many miles round
It seemed for his pleasure provided.
Of the cares, and fatigues, and distresses of life,
This spider was thoroughly tired ;
So, leaving those scenes
of distraction and strife
(His children all settled), he came with
his wife
To live in this cranny retired.
He thought that the little his wife would consume,
'Twould be easy for him to provide her ;
Forgetting he
lived in a gentleman's room,
Where came, every morning, a maid and a
broom,
Those pitiless foes to a spider !
For when, (as sometimes it would chance to befall)
The moment his web was completed,
Brush!—came the great broom down the side of the wall,
And, perhaps, carried with it web, spider and all,
He thought himself cruelly treated.
One day when their cupboard was empty and dry,
His wife (Mrs. Hairy-leg Spinner) Said to him,
" Dear, go to
the cobweb and try
If you can't find the leg or the wing of a fly,
Just a bit of a relish for dinner !'
Directly he went, his long search to resume,
(For nothing he ever denied her),
Alas, little guessing his terrible doom ;
Just then came the gentleman into the room,
And saw the unfortunate spider.
So while the poor insect in search of his pelf,
In the cobweb continued to linger,
The gentleman reached a
long cane from the shelf,
(For certain good reasons best known to
himself,
Preferring his stick to his finger:)
Then presently poking him down to the floor,
Nor stopping at all to consider,
With one horrid crash the whole business was o'er,
The poor little spider was heard of no more,
To the lasting distress of his widow !
JANE TAYLOR.
THE LITTLE BIRD'S COMPLAINT TO HIS MISTRESS
Here in this wiry prison where I sing
And think of sweet green woods, and long to fiy,
Unable once to try my useless wing,
Or wave my feathers in the clear blue sky.
Day after day the selfsame things I see,
The cold white ceiling, and this dreary house ;
Ah ! how unlike my healthy native tree,
Rocked by the winds that whistled through the boughs.
Mild spring returning strews the ground with flowers,
And hangs sweet may-buds on the hedges gay,
But no kind sunshine cheers my gloomy hours,
Nor kind companion twitters on the spray !
Oh ! how I long to stretch my listless wings,
And fly away as far as eye can see!
And from the topmost bough, where Robin sings,
Pour my wild songs, and be as blithe as he.
Why was I taken from the waving nest,
From flowery fields, wide woods, and hedges green ;
Torn from my tender mother's downy breast,
In this sad prison-house to die unseen?
Why must I hear, in summer evenings fine,
A thousand happier birds in merry choirs?
And I, poor lonely I, in grief repine,
Caged by these wooden walls and golden wires !
Say not, the tuneful notes I daily pour
Are songs of pleasure, from a heart at ease ;—
They are but wailings at my prison door,
Incessant cries, to taste the open breeze!
Kind mistress, come, with gentle, pitying hand,
Unbar that curious grate, and set me free ;
Then on the whitethorn bush I'll take my stand,
And sing sweet songs to freedom and to thee.
ANN TAYLOR.
THE DISCONTENTED ELM-TREE
Within a meadow once there grew
An elm-tree tall and stately,
The birdies sang all summer through
So sweetly and sedately.
The breezes whispered night and day
Their tender little stories,
The dew-drops gave their diamond spray,
The sunlight all its glories.
But yet the silly elm-tree sighed
And thus began to ponder :
" If all the world is fair and wide,
Why, why should I not wander ?
He saw along the meadows dim
The wagons rolling daily,
That once were only elms like him,
But now were painted gaily.
How grand," he mused, ' to fly on wheels
Through sunlight
and through shadow !'
It is a waste of life, he feels,
To mope in this
old meadow!
And so one morn they laid him low,
And proudly down he tumbled,
He felt the axe's blow on blow,
But never even grumbled.
They cut him up, they let him dry,
They sawed him and they planed him,
He would not groan, he would not sigh,
No matter how it pained him.
His dearest, brightest dream was
And he would be a wagon!
And like his wheels his hopes would fly,
And never have a drag on!
They painted him all red and blue,
They varnished him and oiled him,
And then, alas! the elm-tree knew,
Too late, that they had spoiled him !
And though he rolls and swings away,
Through meadow, wood, and dingle,
And carries corn and carries hay,
And hears the horse-bells jingle,
He'd give his heart, his inmost core,
With happy resignation,
To be a simple elm once more
E'en in the humblest station.
And now he's old and worn and gray,
His colour growing fainter,
They've put him in a shed away,
Unheeded by the painter.
The spiders crawl by night and day,
And spin their webs about him,
The world goes on its merry way,
And does quite well without him.
The bees fly past with busy hum,
They never cared or knew him,
Only the swallows sometimes come
And whisper gently to him,
Of flowers and ferns and grass and skies,
And meadows deep and scented;
And then the poor old wagon cries,
"Why was I not contented?'
FRED. E. WEATHERLY.
