Mother Goose for Grown Folks

ATTIC SALT

"Two little blackbirds sat upon a hill,One named Jack, the other named JillFly away, Jack! fly away, Jill!Come again, Jack! come again, Jill!"I half suspect that, after all,There's just the smallest bitOf inequality betweenThe witling and the wit.'Tis only mental nimbleness:No language ever broughtA living word to soul of manBut had the latent thought.You may meet, among the million,Good people every day,—Unconscious martyrs to their fate,—Who seem, in half they say,On the brink of something brilliantThey were almost sure to clinch,Yet, by some queer freak of fortune,Just escape it by an inch!I often think the selfsame shade,—This difference of a hair,—Divides between the men of noughtAnd those who do and dare.An instant cometh on the wing,Bearing a kingly crown:This man is dazzled and lets it by—That seizes and brings it down.Winged things may stoop to any doorAlighting close and low;And up and down, 'twixt earth and sky,Do always come and go.Swift, fluttering glimpses touch us all,Yet, prithee, what avails?'Tis only Genius that can putThe salt upon their tails!

THE BIG SHOE

"There was an old womanWho lived in a shoe;She had so many childrenShe did n't know what to do:To some she gave broth,And to some she gave bread,And some she whipped soundly,And sent them to bed."Do you find out the likeness?A portly old Dame,—The mother of millions,—Britannia by name:And—howe'er it may strike youIn reading the song—Not stinted in spaceFor bestowing the throng;Since the Sun can himselfHardly manage to go,In a day and a night,From the heel to the toe.On the arch of the instepShe builds up her throne,And, with seas rolling under,She sits there alone;With her heel at the footOf the Himmalehs planted,And her toe in the icebergs,Unchilled and undaunted.Yet though justly of allHer fine family proud,'Tis no light undertakingTo rule such a crowd;Not to mention the troubleOf seeing them fed,And dispensing with justiceThe broth and the bread.Some will seize upon one,—Some are left with the other,And so the whole householdGets into a pother.But the rigid old DameHas a summary wayOf her own, when she findsThere is mischief to pay.She just takes up the rod,As she lays down the spoon,And makes their rebellious backsTingle right soon:Then she bids them, while yetThe sore smarting they feel,To lie down, and go to sleep,Under her heel!Only once was she posed,—When the little boy Sam,Who had always beforeBeen as meek as a lamb,Refused to take tea,As his mother had bid,And returned saucy answersBecause he was chid.Not content even then,He cut loose from the throne,And set about makingA shoe of his own;Which succeeded so well,And was filled up so fast,That the world, in amazement,Confessed, at the last,—Looking on at the workWith a gasp and a stare,—That't was hard to tell whichWould be best of the pair.Side by side they are standingTogether to-day;Side by side may they keepTheir strong foothold for aye:And beneath the broad sea,Whose blue depths intervene,May the finishing stringLie unbroken between!

VICTUALS AND DRINK

"There once was a woman,And what do you think?She lived upon nothingBut victuals and drink.Victuals and drink"Were the chief of her diet,And yet this poor womanScarce ever was quiet."And were you so foolishAs really to thinkThat all she could wantWas her victuals and drink?And that while she was furnishedWith that sort of diet,Her feeling and fancyWould starve, and be quiet?Mother Goose knew far better;But thought it sufficientTo give a mere hintThat the fare was deficient;For I do not believeShe could ever have meantTo imply there was reasonFor being content.Yet the mass of mankindIs uncommonly slowTo acknowledge the factIt behooves them to know;Or to learn that a womanIs not like a mouse,Needing nothing but cheese,And the walls of a house.But just take a man,—Shut him up for a day;Get his hat and his cane,—Put them snugly away;Give him stockings to mend,And three sumptuous meals;—And then ask him, at night,If you dare, how he feels!Do you think he will quietlyStick to the stocking,While you read the news,And "don't care about talking?"O, many a womanGoes starving, I ween,Who lives in a palace,And fares like a queen;Till the famishing heart,And the feverish brain,Have spelled to life's endThe long lesson of pain.Yet, stay! To my mindAn uneasy suggestionComes up, that there may beTwo sides to the question.That, while here and there provingInflicted privation,The verdict must often be"Wilful starvation."Since there are men and womenWould force one to thinkThey choose to live onlyOn victuals and drink.O restless, and craving,Unsatisfied hearts,Whence never the vultureOf hunger departs!How long on the husksOf your life will ye feed,Ignoring the soul,And her famishing need?Bethink you, when lulledIn your shallow content,'Twas to Lazarus onlyThe angels were sent;And 't is he to whose lipsBut earth's ashes are given,For whom the full banquetIs gathered in heaven!"There was an old womanTossed up in a blanket,Seventeen times as high as the moon;What she did thereI cannot tell you,But in her hand she carried a broom.Old woman, old woman,Old woman, said I,O whither, O whither, O whither so high?To sweep the cobwebsOff the sky,And I 'll be back again, by and by."Mind you, she wore no wings,That she might truly soar; no time was lostIn growing such unnecessary things;But blindly, in a blanket, she was tost!Spasmodically, too!'T was not enough that she should reachthe moon;But seventeen times the distance she mustdo,Lest, peradventure, she get back toosoon.That emblematic broom!Besom of mad Reform, uplifted high,That, to reach cobwebs, would precipitatedoom,And sweep down thunderbolts from outthe sky!Doubtless, no rubbish layAbout her door,—no work was there todo,—That through the astonished aisles of Nightand Day,She took her valorous flight in quest ofnew!Lo! at her little broomThe great stars laugh, as on their wheelsof fireThey go, dispersing the eternal gloom,And shake Time's dust from off eachblazing tire!"Little Miss MuffetSat on a tuffet,Eating curds and whey:There came a black spider,And sat down beside her,And frightened Miss Muffet away,"To all mortal blisses,From comfits to kisses,There's sure to be something by way ofalloy;Each new expectationBrings fresh aggravation,And a doubtful amalgam's the best of ourYou may sit on your tuffet;Yes,—cushion and stuff it;And provide what you please, if you don'tfancy whey;But before you can eat it,There 'll be—I repeat it—Some sort of black spider to come in theway.

DAFFY-DOWN-DILLY

"Daffy-down-dillyIs new come to town,With a petticoat green,And a bright yellow gown,And her little white blossomsAre peeping around."Now don't you call thisA most exquisite thing?Don't it give you a thrillWith the thought of the spring,Such as once, in your childhood,You felt, when you foundThe first yellow buttercupsSpangling the ground?When the lilac was freshWith its glory of leaves,And the swallows came flutteringUnder the eaves?When the bluebird flashed byLike a magical thing,And you looked for a fairyAstride of his wing?When the clear, running water,Like tinkling of bells,Bore along the bare roadsideA song of the dells,—And the mornings were freshWith unfailing delight,While the sweet summer hushAlways came with the night?O' daffy-down-dilly,With robings of gold ÎAs our hearts every yearTo your coming unfold,And sweet memories stirThrough the hardening mould,We feel how earth's blossomingsSurely are givenTo keep the soul freshFor the spring-time of heaven!

BAA, BAA, BLACK SHEEP!

"Baa, baa, black sheep!Have you any wool?Yes, sir,—no, sir,—Three bags full.One for my master,One for my dame,And one for the little boyThat lives in the lane."T is the same question as of old;And still the doubter saith,"Can any good be made to comeFrom out of Nazareth?"No sheep so black in all the flock,—No human heart so bare,—But hath some warm and generous stockOf kindliness to share.It may be treasured secretlyFor dear ones at the hearth;Or be bestowed by stealth alongThe by-ways of the earth;—And though no searching eye may see,Nor busy tongue may tell,Perchance, where largest love is laid,The Master knoweth well!

THE TWISTER

A twister, in twisting, would twist him a twist,And, twisting his twists, seven twists he doth twist:If one twist, in twisting, untwist from the twist,The twist, untwisting, untwists the twist."A ravelled rainbow overheadLets down to life its varying thread:Love's blue,—Joy's gold,—and, fair be-tween,Hope's shifting light of emerald green;With, either side, in deep relief,A crimson Pain,—a violet Grief.Wouldst thou, amid their gleaming hues,Clutch after those, and these refuse?Believe,—as thy beseeching eyesFollow their lines, and sound the skies,—There, where the fadeless glories shine,An unseen angel twists the twine.And be thou sure, what tint so e'erThe broken rays beneath may wear,It needs them all, that, broad and white,God's love may weave the perfect light!

FANTASY

"I have a little sister,They call her peep, peep;She wades through the water,Deep, deep, deep;She climbs up the mountains,High, high, high; 'My poor little sister,She has but one eye!"Rough Common Sense doth here confessHer kinship to Imagination;Betraying also, I should guess,Some little pride in the relation.For even while vexed, and puzzled too,By the vagaries of the latter,—Fearful what next the child may do,—She looks with loving wonder at her.Plain Sense keeps ever to the roadThat's beaten down and daily trod;While Fancy fords the rivers wide,And scrambles up the mountain-side:By which exploits she's always gettingEither a tumble or a wetting.While simple Sense looks straight before,Fancy "peeps" further, and sees more;And yet, if left to walk alone,May chance, like most long-sighted people,To trip her foot against a stoneWhile gazing at a distant steeple.Nay, worse! with all her grace erratic,And feats aerial and aquatic,Her flights sublime, and moods ecstatic,She of the vision wild and highHath but a solitary eye!And,—not to quote the Scripture, whichForebodes the falling in the ditch,—Doubtless by following such a guideBlindly, in all her wanderings wide,The world, at best, would get o' one side.What then? To rid us of our doubtIs there no other thing to doBut we must turn poor Fancy out,And only downright Fact pursue?Ah, see you not, bewildered man!The heavenly beauty of the plan?'T was so ordained, in counsels high,To give to sweet ImaginationA single deep and glorious eye;But then't was meant, in compensation,That Common Sense, with optics keen,—As maid of honor to a queen,—On her blind side should always stay,And keep her in the middle way.

JINGLING AND JANGLING

"Little Jack JingleUsed to live single.But when he got tiredOf that kind of life,He left off being single,And lived with his wife."Your period's pointed, most excellent Moth-er!Pray what did he do when he tired of theother?For a man so deplorably prone to ennuiBut a queer sort of husband is likely to be.The fatigue might recur,—and, in case itshould be so,Why not take a wife on a limited lease, O?Grant the privilege, pray, to his idiosyn-crazy,—Some natures won't bear to be too closelypinned, you see,—And, at worst, the poor Benedict mightadvertise,When weary, at length, of the light of hiseyes,—Or failing to find her, it may be, in salt,—"Disposed of, indeed, for no manner offault,"(To borrow a figure of speech from themart,)"But because the late owner has taken astart!"I believe once before you have cautiouslysaidSomething quite as concise on this delicatehead,When distantly hinting at "needles andpins,"And that "when a man marries, his troublebegins";But I don't recollect that you ever pretendTo prophesy anything as to the end.Unless we may learn it of Peter,—thebumpkin,Renowned for naught else but his eatingof pumpkin;Whose wife—I don't see how he happenedto get her—Had a taste, very likely, for things thatwere better:Since, fearing to lose her, at last it be-fellHe bethought him of shutting her up in ashell;By which brilliant contrivance she kept verywell!What he did with her next, the old rhymedoes n't say,But she seems to be somehow got out ofthe way,For the ill-fated Peter was wedded oncemore,To find his bewilderment worse than be-fore;"If the first for her spouse had but smallpredilection,Now 't was his turn, alas! to fall short inaffection.And how do you think that he conqueredthe evil?Why, simply by lifting himself to her level;By leaving his pumpkins, and learning tospell,He came, saith the story, to love her rightwell;And the mythical memoir its moral con-trivesFor the lasting instruction of husband*and wives.

THE OLD WOMAN OF SURREY

"There was an old woman in Surrey,Who was morn, noon, and night in a hurry;Called her husband a fool,Drove the children to school,The worrying old woman of Surrey."T was an ancient earldom over the sea,And it must be now as it used to be;Yet the sketch is of one I have knownbefore,—The very old woman that lives next door.One thing is unquestionable,—she 's"smart,"—As they say of an apple that's rather tart;For her nearest friends, I think, wouldallow herTo be, at her best, but a "pleasant sour."There's a certain electrical atmosphereThat you feel beforehand, when she's near:And—unless you 'ye a wonderful deal ofpluck—A shrinking fear that you might be"struck."She moves with such a bustle and rush,—Such an elemental stir and crush,As makes the branches bend and fallIn the breeze that blows up a thunder-squall.And yet, it is only her endless "hurry";She's not so bad if she would n't "worry."And, for all the worlds that she has to make.If the six days' time she 'd only take.You may talk about Surrey, or Devon, orKent,But I doubt if a special location was meant;It may sound severe,—but it seems to meThat a "representative" woman was she;And that here and there you may chanceto traceSome specimens extant of the race:For a slip of the stock, as I've a notion,Somehow "in the Mayflower" crossed theocean.

PICKLE PEPPERS

"Peter Piper picked a peck of pickle peppers;And a peck of pickle peppers Peter Piper picked;If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickle peppersWhere's the peck of pickle peppers Peter Piperpicked?"Poor Peter toiled his life away,That afterward the world might say"Where is the peck of peppers heDid gather so industriously?"The peppers are embalmed in metre,—But who, alas! inquires for Peter?In sun or storm, by night and day,Scant time for sleep, and none for play,Still the poor fool did nothing reck,If only he might pick his peck:And what result from all hath sprung,But just to bite somebody's tongue?Or,—Lady Fortune playing fickle,—Get some one in a precious pickle?

HUMPTY DUMPTY

"Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall;Humpty Dumpty had a great fall:Not all the king's horses nor all the king's menCould set Humpty Dumpty up again."Full many a project that never was hatchedFalls down, and gets shattered beyond be-ing patched;And luckily, too! for if all came to chick-ens,Then things without feathers might go tothe dickens.If each restless unit that moves among menMight climb to a place with the privileged"ten,"Pray tell us where all the commotion wouldstop!Must the whole pan of milk, forsooth, riseto the top?If always the statesman attained to his hopes,And grasped the great helm, who wouldstand by the ropes?Or if all dainty fingers their duties mightchoose,Who would wash up the dishes, and polishthe shoes?Suppose every aspirant writing a bookContrived to get published, by hook or bycrook;Geologists then of a later creationWould be startled, I fancy, to find a forma-tionProving how the poor world did most wo-fully sinkBeneath mountains of paper, and oceans ofink!Or even suppose all the women were mar-ried;By whom would superfluous babies be car-ried?Where would be the good aunts that shouldknit all the stockings?Or nurses, to do up the singings and rock-ings?Wise spinsters, to lay down their wonderfulrules,And with theories rare to enlighten thefools,—Or to look after orphans, and primaryschools?No! Failure's a part of the infinite plan;Who finds that he can't, must give way towho can;And as one and another drops out of therace,Each stumbles at last to his suitable place.So the great scheme works on,—though,like eggs from the wall,Little single designs to such ruin may fall,That not all the world's might, of its horsesor men,Could set their crushed hopes at the sum-mit again.

SUNDAY AND MONDAY

"As Tommy Snooks and Bessy BrooksWere walking out one Sunday,Says Tommy Snooks to Bessy Brooks,To-morrow will be Monday."No doubt you are smiling at such a remark.And thinking poor Snooks but a pitifulspark;But the words have a meaning, worth look-ing for, too,As I'll presently try and demonstrate for you.'Twas a pity, indeed, in that moment ofleisure,To dampen poor Bessy's hebdomadal pleas-ure,Suggesting that close on the beautiful Sun-dayMust come all the common-place horrorsof Monday;That he to his toiling, and she to hertub,Must turn, and take up with another week'srub;Yet a truth for us all, since the shade ofthe realFollows fast on the track of each sunnyideal.Now and then we may pause on Life'spleasant oases;But between lie the desert's grim, desolatespaces;And our feet, with all patience, must trav-erse them still,Reaching forward to blessing, throughbearing of ill.Yet for Snooks and his Bessy,—for meand for you,—Comes a Saturday night when the wagewill be due;And we'll say to each other, in ecstasy,one day,"To-morrow—the endless to-morrow—isSunday!"

THE MAD HORSE

"There was a mad man,And he had a mad wife,And the children were mad beside;So on a mad horseThey all of them got,And madly away did ride."Sagacious Goose! Fresh wonders yet!"What spell had power to help you getThose seven-leagued spectacles, that seeDown to the nineteenth century?"The mad world, and his madder wife!"That, in your earlier time of life,—Though quite demented now,?t is plain,—Were sober, grave, and almost sane!And all the tribes, a motley broodSprung into being since the flood,With their hereditary bentTo cerebral bewilderment!If some old ghost, precise and slow,Who died a hundred years ago,—Always supposing he himselfHas lain, meanwhile, upon the shelf,—Things as they are might only see,Surely his inference would beA simultaneous bursting outOf lunacy the earth about.The world is mad; his wife is mad;The rising generation's madder;"And when a charter can be had,Up to the moon they 'll build a ladder!They caught a horse awhile ago,—They called him Steam,—but he wasslow;After the lightning then they ran,Caught him,—and now they drive thespan!—1860.P. S.—1870.The great Pacific railroad's done;They've poured two oceans into one:Two shores with whispering cable tied,And cut a path for ships to ride,Where camel-tracks had used to be,Through desert sands, from sea to sea.Moon, quoth I? Faith, they 've made amoon!Leastwise, they 've thought one;1 and sosoonUpon man's whim his stroke succeeds,And turns his dreams into his deeds,Look sharply! for with word and blow,They 'll swing one up before you know!1882.Why put a double P. S. in?'T would need a daily bulletinTo tell how fast the craze goes on,With Keeley and with Edison;With things to eat, and things to travel,—Bicycles spinning o'er the gravel,—Great guns to simplify the fights,—Suns outshone with electric lights,—The whisper in the closet stirredIn sooth across the housetops heard,And when the airy tangle tiresEarth to be veined with throbbing wires.Women to physic and to preach,And help the national bird to screech;One man on Wall-Street curb to stand,With twenty railroads in his hand;Schools for the mass, effecting this,That all may know what most must missAh, who so sage that can pretendTo pre-sage of such tale the end?I press the limit of my page;So, haply, may this frantic age!

ROSES AND DIAMONDS

"Little girl, little girl, where have you been?Gathering roses to give to the queen.Little girl, little girl, what gave she you?She gave me a diamond as big as my shoe."If the old could share with the youngagain,—If worn could borrow of new,—If faces could wear their roses again.And hearts be sweetened with dew,—If a child might bring the joy of a child,And give it to us to-day,—What glory of gem, or what weight of goldWould we think too precious to pay?

JACK HORNER

"Little Jack HornerSat in a cornerEating a Christmas Pie:He put in his thumb,And pulled out a plum,And said, "What a great boy am I!"Ah, the world hath many a Horner,Who, seated in his corner,Finds a Christmas Pie provided for histhumb:And cries out with exultation,"When successful explorationDoth discover the predestinated plum!Little Jack outgrows his tier,And becometh John, Esquire;And he finds a monstrous pasty ready made,Stuffed with stocks and bonds and bales,Gold, currencies and sales,And all the mixed ingredients of Trade.And again it is his luckTo be just in time to pluck,By a clever "operation," from the pieAn unexpected." plum";So he glorifies his thumb,And says, proudly, "What a mighty manam I!"Or perchance, to Science turning,And with weary labor learningAll the formulas and phrases that oppressher,—For the fruit of others' bakingSo a fresh diploma taking,Comes he forth, a full accredited Profes-sor!Or he's not too nice to mixIn the dish of politics;And the dignity of office he puts on;And he feels as big againAs a dozen nobler men,While he writes himself the HonorableJohn!Ah, me, for the poor nation!In her hour of desperationHer worst foe is that unsparing Horner-Thumb!To which War, and Death, and Hate,Right, Policy, and State,Are but pies wherefrom his greed maygrasp a plum!Oh, the work was fair and true,But't is riddled through and through.And plundered of its glories everywhere;And before men's cheated eyesDoth the robber triumph riseAnd magnify itself in all the air."Why, if even a good man dies,And is welcomed to the skiesIn the glorious resurrection of the just,They must ruffle it below"With some vain and wretched show,To make each his little mud-pie of the dust!Shall we hint at Lady-Horners,Who in their exclusive cornersThink the world is only made of upper-crust?Who in the queer mince-pieThat we call Society,Do their dainty fingers delicately thrust;Till, if it come to pass,In the spiced and sugared mass,One should compass,—do n't they call itso?—a catch,By the gratulation givenIt would seem the very heavenHad outdone itself in making such amatch!Or the "Woman-Horner, now,Who is raising such a rowTo prove that Jack's no bigger boy thanJill;And that she wo n't sit byWith her little saucer pie,While he from the Great Pasty picks hisfill.Jealous-wild to be a sharerIn the fruit she thinks the fairer,Flings by all for the swift gaining of herwish;Not discerning in her blindness,How a tender Loving-KindnessHid the best things in her own rejecteddish!O, the world keeps Christmas DayIn a queer, perpetual way;Shouting always, w What a great big boyam I!"Yet how many of the crowdThus vociferating loud,And their honors or pretensions liftinghigh,Have really, more than Jack,With their boldness or their knack,Had a finger in the making of the Pie?

INTY, MINTY

"Inty, minty,Cutey, corn!Apple-seed,Apple-thorn!Wire, brier,Limber lock;Seven geeseIn a flock,Sit and sing, by the spring;O-u-t, out, and in again."Inklings and meanings,Sprinklings and gleanings,Shimmers and glints.That's how the light comesDown from the sides;That's how the beautyIs born to our eyes.The seed is within,And the thorn is without:Nature's sweet secretIs guarded about.Yet briers are slender,Locks are but slight,To touch of a geniusThat searches with light.White by the fountainSit the calm seven;Unto their joyanceIts music is given.The world looketh on,And still wonders in vain,As they go out and in,And find pasture again.

DOUBLES AND BUBBLES

"Hey, rub-a-dub!Three maids in a tub!And who do you think was there?The butcher, the baker,The candlestick-maker,And all of them gone to the fair."Strong hands are in the washing-tubs;Gay heads, the labor scorning,Make holiday between the rubs,And sport of Monday morning.Three maids? That's your arithmetic.The child that met the poetWould still to her own counting stick:"We 're seven; I surely know it!"The boatman ferried over threeAcross the haunted river;And only guessed it by his fee,And wondered at the giver.And Betsey, Jane, and Mary Ann,—If more your sense discovers?Well, rub your insight if you can,And reckon up the lovers!Count Jane with her stout cleaver knight,And Betsey with the baker;And Mary Ann in dreamy lightBeside the candle-maker.Yet of the six no soul is there,For all your wakened vision!In the charmed circle of the FairThey walk their Fields Elysian!The work goes on by board and bench,—Hard tax of human sinning,—But hearts thro' labor-chinks still wrenchSome joy of their beginning.In the close limit that confinesOur getting and our giving,Unless we read between the lines,What should we do with living?