Part 6 (1/2)
Never more shall the broken water-wheel Grind the corn to make the meal, To make the children's bread.
The miller was dead.
When the setting sun Looked to see what the Mill Stream had done In its hour Of unlimited power, And what was left when that had pa.s.sed by, Behold the channel was stony and dry.
In uttermost ruin The Mill Stream had been its own undoing.
Furthermore it had drowned its friend: This was the end.
[Ill.u.s.tration]
BOY AND SQUIRREL.
Oh boy, down there, I can't believe that what they say is true!
We squirrels surely cannot have an enemy in you; We have so much in common, my dear friend, it seems to me That I can really feel for you, and you can feel for me.
Some human beings might not understand the life we lead; If we asked Dr. Birch to play, no doubt he'd rather read; He hates all scrambling restlessness, and chattering, scuffling noise; If he could catch us we should fare no better than you boys.
Fine ladies, too, whose flounces catch and tear on every stump, What joy have they in jagged pines, who neither skip nor jump?
Miss Mittens never saw my tree-top home--so unlike hers; What wonder if her only thought of squirrels is of furs?
But you, dear boy, you know so well the bliss of climbing trees, Of scrambling up and sliding down, and rocking in the breeze, Of cracking nuts and chewing cones, and keeping cunning h.o.a.rds, And all the games and all the sport and fun a wood affords.
It cannot be that you would make a prisoner of me, Who hate yourself to be cooped up, who love so to be free; An extra hour indoors, I know, is punishment to you; _You_ make _me_ twirl a tiny cage? It never can be true!
Yet I've a wary grandfather, whose tail is white as snow.
He thinks he knows a lot of things we young ones do not know; He says we're safe with Doctor Birch, because he is so blind, And that Miss Mittens would not hurt a fly, for she is kind.
But you, dear boy, who know my ways, he bids me fly from you, He says my life and liberty are lost unless I do; That you, who fear the Doctor's cane, will fling big sticks at me, And tear me from my forest home, and from my favourite tree.
The more we think of what he says, the more we're sure it's ”chaff,”
We sit beneath the shadow of our bushy tails and laugh; Hey, presto! Friend, come up, and let us hide and seek and play, If you could spring as well as climb, what fun we'd have to-day!
LITTLE MASTER TO HIS BIG DOG.
Oh, how greedy you look as you stare at my plate, Your mouth waters so, and your big tail is drumming Flop! flop! flop! on the carpet, and yet if you'll wait, When we have quite finished, your dinner is coming.
Yes! I know what you mean, though you don't speak a word; You say that you wish that I kindly would let you Take your meals with the family, which is absurd, And on a tall chair like a gentleman set you.
But how little you think, my dear dog, when you talk; You've no ”table manners,” you bolt meat, you gobble; And how could you eat bones with a knife, spoon, and fork?
You would be in a most inconvenient hobble.
And yet, once on a time it is certainly true, My own manners wanted no little refining; For I gobbled, and spilled, and was greedy like you, And had no idea of good manners when dining.
So that when I consider the tricks _you_ have caught, To sit or shake paws with the utmost good breeding, I must own it quite possible you may be taught The use of a plate, and a nice style of feeding.
Therefore try to learn manners, and eat as I do; Don't glare at the joint, and as soon as you're able To behave like the rest, you shall feed with us too, And dine like a gentleman sitting at table.
[Ill.u.s.tration]
A SWEET LITTLE DEAR
I always _was_ a remarkable child; so old for my age, and such a sensitive nature!--Mamma often says so.
And I'm the sweetest, little dear in my blue ribbons, and quite a picture in my Pompadour hat!--Mrs. Brown told her so on Sunday, and that's how I know.