Part 5 (2/2)
”You are old, Father William,” the young man said, ”And your hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head-- Do you think, at your age, it is right?”
”In my youth,” Father William replied to his son, ”I feared it might injure the brain; But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again.”
”You are old,” said the youth, ”as I mentioned before, And have grown most uncommonly fat; Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door-- Pray, what is the reason of that?”
”In my youth,” said the sage, as he shook his gray locks, ”I kept all my limbs very supple By the use of this ointment--one s.h.i.+lling the box-- Allow me to sell you a couple.”
”You are old,” said the youth, ”and your jaws are too weak For anything tougher than suet; Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak: Pray, how did you manage to do it?”
”In my youth,” said his father, ”I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife; And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw Has lasted the rest of my life.”
”You are old,” said the youth; ”one would hardly suppose That your eye was as steady as ever; Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose-- What made you so awfully clever?”
”I have answered three questions, and that is enough,”
Said his father, ”don't give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I'll kick you down-stairs!”
LEWIS CARROLL.
(”Alice in Wonderland.”)
THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE GLOW-WORM.
”The Nightingale,” by William Cowper (1731-1800), is a favourite with a teacher of good taste, and I include it at her request.
A nightingale, that all day long Had cheered the village with his song, Nor yet at eve his note suspended, Nor yet when eventide was ended, Began to feel, as well he might, The keen demands of appet.i.te; When, looking eagerly around, He spied far off, upon the ground, A something s.h.i.+ning in the dark, And knew the glow-worm by his spark; So, stooping down from hawthorn top, He thought to put him in his crop.
The worm, aware of his intent, Harangued him thus, right eloquent: ”Did you admire my lamp,” quoth he, ”As much as I your minstrelsy, You would abhor to do me wrong, As much as I to spoil your song; For 'twas the self-same power divine, Taught you to sing and me to s.h.i.+ne; That you with music, I with light, Might beautify and cheer the night.”
The songster heard his short oration, And warbling out his approbation, Released him, as my story tells, And found a supper somewhere else.
WILLIAM COWPER.
PART II.
The Little Child
[Ill.u.s.tration]
THE FROST.
”Jack Frost,” by Hannah Flagg Gould (1789-1865), is perhaps a hundred years old, but he is the same rollicking fellow to-day as of yore. The poem puts his merry pranks to the front and prepares the way for science to give him a true a.n.a.lysis.
The Frost looked forth, one still, clear night, And whispered, ”Now I shall be out of sight; So through the valley and over the height, In silence I'll take my way: I will not go on with that bl.u.s.tering train, The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain, Who make so much bustle and noise in vain, But I'll be as busy as they.”
Then he flew to the mountain and powdered its crest; He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed In diamond beads--and over the breast Of the quivering lake he spread A coat of mail, that it need not fear The downward point of many a spear That hung on its margin far and near, Where a rock could rear its head.
He went to the windows of those who slept, And over each pane, like a fairy, crept; Wherever he breathed, wherever he slept, By the light of the moon were seen Most beautiful things--there were flowers and trees; There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees; There were cities with temples and towers, and these All pictured in silver sheen!
But he did one thing that was hardly fair; He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there That all had forgotten for him to prepare-- ”Now just to set them a-thinking, I'll bite this basket of fruit,” said he, ”This costly pitcher I'll burst in three, And the gla.s.s of water they've left for me Shall '_tchich!_' to tell them I'm drinking.”
HANNAH FLAGG GOULD.
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