Kitabı oku: «Five Minute Stories», sayfa 5
A STUDY HOUR
Oh! what a mystery
The study is of history!
How the kings go ravaging
And savaging about!
Plantagenet or Tudor,
I can’t tell which was ruder;
But Richard Third,
Upon my word,
Was worst of all the rout.
Alfred was a hero,
Knew no guile nor fear, oh!
Beat the Danes and checked the Thanes,
And ruled the country well.
Edward First, the Hammer,
Was a slaughterer and slammer,
And Bruce alone
Saved Scotland’s throne,
When ’neath his blows it fell.
Edward Third was great, too,
Early fought and late, too;
Drove the French
From Cressy’s trench
Like leaves before the blast.
But Harry Fifth, the glorious,
He the all-victorious,
He’s the one
I’d serve alone,
From first unto the last.
Oh! what a mystery
The study is of history!
Queens and kings,
And wars and things,
All done in black and white.
Though sometimes a trifle bloody,
’Tis my best beloved study,
For only so
One learns, you know,
To govern and to fight!
THE YOUNG LADIES
The young ladies had a reception this afternoon, and a charming occasion it was. The guests were invited for four o’clock, and when I came in at five the party was in full swing.
Clare was the hostess, – lovely Clare, with her innocent blue eyes and gentle, unchanging smile. The nursery was transformed into a bower of beauty, and Clare was standing by a chair, holding out her hand with a gracious gesture of welcome. Alida received with her, and she looked charming, too, only she was so much smaller that she had to be stood up on a box to bring her to a level with Clare’s shoulder. Alida is a remarkable doll, because she can open and shut her eyes without lying down or getting up; and Betty sat on the floor behind her and pulled the strings, so that she waved her long eyelashes up and down in the most enchanting manner.
All the dolls were in their best clothes, except Jack the sailor, who cannot change his suit, because it is against his principles; and I must say they made a pretty party. The tea-things were set out on the little round table, all the best cups and saucers, and the pewter teapot that came from Holland, and the gold spoons; and there was real cocoa, and jam, and oyster crackers, and thin bread and butter.
Rosalie Urania presided at the tea-table, and poured the cocoa with such grace that no one would have suspected her of being helped a little by Juliet (Juliet is not a doll), who was hidden behind the table.
“Will you have a cup of cocoa?” asked Rosalie, sweetly, as Mr. Punchinello approached her with his most elegant bow.
“With pleasure, lovely maiden!” was the courtly reply. “From your hands what would not your devoted Punchinello take?”
He bowed and smiled again (indeed, he was always smiling), while Rosalie, blushing (it was a way she had), lifted the pewter teapot, and deftly filled one of the pretty cups.
“He’ll take a licking from my hands if he doesn’t look out!” growled Jack, the sailor, who is jealous of Punchinello, and loves Rosalie Urania.
“Hush, you rude creature!” whispered Alida, giving Jack a little push. Clare is quite sure that Alida only meant the push as a gentle rebuke to Jack, and a warning to keep quiet, and not let his angry passions rise; but Clare always stands up for Alida. However it was, Jack tottered, staggered forward, and fell against Mr. Punchinello, knocking that smiling gentleman over on the table, and upsetting the teapot all over Rosalie Urania’s pink silk gown. Such a confusion as arose then! Rosalie fainted, of course. Jack picked himself up, and looked black as thunder. Alida shut her eyes, and kept them shut (she said it was from horror, but it may have been because Betty forgot to pull the opening string), but Clare and Mr. Punchinello did nothing but smile, which was a proof of their exquisite breeding.
THE WEATHERCOCK
The weathercock stands on the steeple,
And there the weathercock stands;
He flaps his wings and he claps his wings,
Because he has no hands;
He turns him round when the wind blows,
He turns again and again;
But Baby has hands and can clap them,
Flip them and flop them and flap them,
Swing them and wring them and slap them,
Far better than cock or hen.
ICTHYOLOGY BY LAURA E. RICHARDS
I, John Dory, tell the story of the night
When the Pinna gave a dinner to the Trout.
It was surely (yet not purely) a delight,
Though attended, – ay, and ended, with a rout.
Every fish ’un of condition sure was there,
From the Cuttle down to little Tommy Spratt;
From the Urchin who was perchin’ on the stair,
To the Tunny in his funny beaver hat.
The Sword-fish, like the lord-fish that he is,
Brought the Pilot, saying “My lot shall be yours!”
The Guffer tried to huff her with a quiz,
But the Gurnet looked so stern, it made him pause.
The Grayling was a-sailing through the dance,
And the Oyster from her cloister had come out;
And the Minnow with her fin, oh! did advance,
And the Flounder capered round her with the Pout.
When the Winkle, with a twinkle in his eye,
Led the Cod-fish (such an odd fish!) to the feast,
Cried the Mullet, “Oh! my gullet is so dry,
I could swallow half the hollow sea at least.”
The Frog-fish and the Dog-fish followed next,
And the Sturgeon was emergeon from his lair;
And the Herring by his bearing was perplexed,
But the Tinker, as a thinker, did not care.
The Cobbler, – such a gobbler as he was!
Why, the Blenny had not anything to eat!
And the Trunk-fish grew a drunk fish, just because
The Plaice there said the Dace there was so sweet.
The Torpedo said, “To feed, oh! is my joy;
Let me wallow, let me swallow at my will!”
Cried the Shark, then, “Here’s a lark, then! come, my boy,
Give a rouse, now! we’ll carouse now to our fill.”
The Dolphin was engulfin’ lager beer,
Though the Porgy said “How logy he will be.”
And the Scallop gave a wallop as they handed him a collop
And the Sculpin was a-gulpin’ of his tea, – deary me!
How that Sculpin was a-gulpin’ of his tea!
I, John Dory, to my glory be it said,
Took no part in such cavortin’ as above.
With the Sun-fish (ah! the one fish!) calm I fed,
And, grown bolder, softly told her of my love.
But the Conger cried “No longer shall this be!”
And the Trout now said “No doubt now it must end.”
Said the Tench, then, from his bench, then, “Count on me!”
And the Salmon cried “I am on hand, my friend.”
Then we cut on to each glutton as he swam,
And we hit them, and we bit them in the tail,
And the Lamprey struck the damp prey with a clam,
And the Goby made the foe be very pale.
The Gudgeon, not begrudgeon of his force,
Hit the Cunner quite a stunner on the head;
And the Mussel had a tussle with the Horse,
And the Whiting kept a-fighting till he bled.
The Carp, too, bold and sharp, too, joined our band,
On the Weaver, gay deceiver, did he spring,
And the Mack’rel laid the Pick’rel on the sand,
And the Stickle-back did tickle back the Ling.
We drove them, and we clove them to the gill,
We raced them and we chased them through the sea;
And the Scallop gave a wallop when we took away his collop,
But the Sculpin still was gulpin’ of his tea, – deary me!
How that Sculpin was a-gulpin’ of his tea!
A HAPPY MORNING
This is the receipt for a happy morning:
Two small children, boys or girls; be sure that they are good ones!
Two wooden pails.
Two shovels, of wood or metal.
One sea.
One sandy beach, with not too many pebbles.
One dozen clam-shells (more or less).
One sun.
Two sunbonnets, or broad-brimmed hats.
One mother, or nurse, within calling distance.
Starfish and sea-urchins to taste.
Mix the shovels with the sandy beach, and season well with starfish. Add the sunbonnets to the children, and, when thoroughly united, add the wooden pails. Spread the sun and the sea on the beach, and sprinkle thoroughly with sea-urchins and clam-shells. Add the children, mix thoroughly, and bake as long as advisable.
N. B. Do not add the mother at all, except in case of necessity.
LILIES AND CAT-TAILS
“Mother,” said Roger, swinging in at the door and catching up the baby for a toss, “I am going to begin Physical Geography! And teacher says I must have a book, please, as soon as I can get it. It costs two dollars, and it’s just full of pictures, oh, so interesting! And may I get it to-day, please, mother?”
“Mother” looked up with a sad little loving smile. “Dear heart,” she said, “I have not two dollars in the world just now, unless I take them from the money I am saving for your new suit, and I hardly ought to do that, my poor Roger!”
Roger looked down with a rueful whistle at his clothes, which, though clean, were patched and darned to the utmost limit.
“I’m afraid the Patent Mosaic Suit is rather past the bloom of youth,” he said, cheerily. “Never mind, mammy! Perhaps Will Almy will lend me his book, sometimes, or I can study in recess out of Miss Black’s. Don’t worry, anyhow, but catch Miss Dumpling here, while I go and bring in some water.”
Mrs. Rayne sighed deeply, as Roger set the baby on her lap and darted out of the house. She knew it was to hide his face of disappointment that the boy had gone off so hurriedly.
Poor Roger! so bright, so eager to learn, he ought to have a first-rate education! But how could she, a widow with four children on a tiny farm, give it to him? Bread and butter and decent clothing must come first, and these were hard enough to win, even though she worked all day and half the night for them. Education must be picked up as it could.
The little woman shook her head and sighed again, as she put Miss Dumpling on the floor with a button-string to play with, and took up the pile of mending.
But Roger, though he was disappointed, had no idea of giving up the Physical Geography. Not a bit of it!
“Mother cannot get it for me,” he said, as he turned away at the windlass of the old well. “Very well, then, I must get it myself. The only question is, how?”
Up came the brimming bucket, and, as he stooped to lift it, he saw in the clear water the reflection of a bright, anxious face, with inquiring eyes and a resolute mouth. “Don’t be afraid, old fellow!” he said, with a reassuring nod. “‘How?’ is a short question, and I am sure to find the answer before the day is out,” and, whistling merrily, he went off to water the garden.
That evening, just as the sun was sinking, all golden and glorious beneath the horizon, a boat pushed out from among the reeds that fringed Pleasant Pond. It was a rough little dory of no particular model, painted a dingy green, but its crew was apparently well satisfied with it. One boy sat in the stern and paddled sturdily: another crouched in the bow, scanning the reeds with a critical air, while between them sat a little fair-haired maiden, leaning over the side and singing, as she dipped her hands in the clear, dark water.
“Here’s a fine bunch of cat-tails!” cried Roger. “Shove her in here, Joe!”
Joe obeyed, and Roger’s knife was soon at work cutting the stately reeds, with their sceptre-tips of firm, brown velvet.
“Oh, and here are the lilies!” cried little Annet. “See, Roger! see! all white and gold, the lovely things! Oh, let me pull them!”
In another moment, the boat seemed to be resting on a living carpet of snow and gold. The lilies grew so thick that one could hardly see the water between them. Roger and Annet drew them in by handfuls, laying them in glistening piles in the bottom of the boat, and soon Joe laid down his paddle, and joined in the picking.
“Some pooty, be n’t they?” he said. “What d’ye cal’late ter sell ’em for, Roger?”
“For whatever I can get,” replied Roger, cheerfully. “I’ve never tried it before, but I know that plenty of boys do take them to the city from other ponds and streams. We are a little farther off, but I never saw any lilies so large as ours.”
“Nor so sweet!” cried Annet, burying her rosy face in the golden heart of a snowy cup. “Oh, how I love them!”
How the lilies must have wondered at the adventures that befell them after this! All night they lay in a great tub of water, which was well enough, though there was no mud in it. Then, at daybreak next morning they were taken out and laid on a bed of wet moss and covered with wet burdock leaves. Then came a long period of jolting, when the world went bumping up and down with a noise of creaking and rumbling, broken by the sound of human voices.
Finally, and suddenly, they emerged into the full glare of the sun, and found themselves in a new world altogether, – a street corner in a great city; tall buildings, glittering windows, crowds of men and women hurrying to and fro like ants about an ant-hill. Only the cool, wet moss beneath them, and the sight of their old friends, the cat-tails, standing like sentinels beside them, kept the lilies from fainting away altogether.
Roger looked eagerly about him, scanning the faces of the passers-by. Would this one buy? or that one? that pretty lady, who looked like a lily herself? He held out a bunch timidly, and the lady smiled and stopped.
“How lovely and fresh! Thank you!” and the first piece of silver dropped into Roger’s pocket, and chinked merrily against his jackknife. Then another young lady carried off a huge bunch of cat-tails, and a second piece of silver jingled against the first.
Soon another followed it, and another, and another, and Roger’s eyes danced, and his hopes rose higher and higher.
At this rate, the Physical Geography would be his, beyond a doubt. He saw it already, – the smooth green covers, the delightful maps within, the pictures of tropical countries, of monkeys and cocoanuts, elephants and – THUMP! His dream was rudely broken in upon by a gentleman running against him and nearly knocking him over, – an old gentleman, with fierce, twinkling eyes and a bushy gray beard.
“What! what!” sputtered the old gentleman, pettishly. “Get out of my way, boy! My fault! beg your pardon!” Roger moved aside, bewildered by the sudden shock.
“Will you buy some Physical Geographies, sir?” he asked. “See how fresh they are? They are the loveliest – ”
“This boy is a lunatic!” said the old gentleman, fiercely, “and ought to be shut up. How dare you talk to me about Physical Geography, sir?”
Roger stared at him blankly, and then grew crimson with shame and confusion. “I – I beg your pardon, sir!” he faltered, “I meant to say ‘lilies.’ I was thinking so hard about the geography that it slipped out without my knowing it. I suppose. I – ”
“What! what!” cried the old gentleman, catching him by his arm. “Thinking about Physical Geography, hey? What d’ye mean? This is a remarkable boy. Come here, sir! come here!”
He dragged Roger to one side, and made him sit down beside him on a convenient doorstep. “What d’ye mean?” he repeated, fixing his piercing gray eyes upon the boy in a manner which made him feel very uncomfortable. “What do you know about Physical Geography?”
“Nothing yet, sir,” replied Roger, modestly. “But I am very anxious to study it, and I am selling these lilies and cat-tails to try and get money enough to buy the book.”
“This is a most remarkable boy!” cried the old gentleman. “What geography is it you want, hey? Merton’s, I’ll warrant. Trash, sir! unspeakable trash!”
“No, sir; Willison’s,” replied the boy, thinking that the old gentleman was certainly crazy.
But on hearing this, his strange companion seized him by the hand, and shook it warmly. “I am Willison!” he exclaimed. “It is my Geography! You are a singularly intelligent boy. I am glad to meet you.”
Roger stared in blank wonderment. “Did – did you write the Physical Geography, sir?” he stammered, finally.
“To be sure I did!” said the old gentleman, “and a good job it was! While that ass Merton, – here! here!” he cried, fumbling in his pockets, “give me the lilies, and take that!” and he thrust a shining silver dollar into Roger’s hand. “And here!” he scribbled something on a card, “take that, and go to Cooper, the publisher, and see what he says to you. You are an astonishing boy! Good-by! God bless you! You have done me good. I was suffering from dyspepsia when I met you, – atrocious tortures! All gone now! Bless you!”
He was gone, and Roger Rayne was sitting alone on the steps, with the dollar in one hand, and the card in the other, as bewildered a boy as any in Boston town.
When he recovered his senses a little, he looked at the card and read, in breezy, straggling letters, “Give to the astonishing boy who brings this, a copy of my Physical Geography. Best binding. William Willison.”
THE METALS
In the earth’s dark bosom
Long I slumbered deep,
Till the hardy miners
Woke me from my sleep.
Now I flash and glitter,
Now I’m bought and sold,
Everyone for me doth run,
For my name is Gold.
In jewels and money
I shine, I shine.
The great world of riches
Is mine, is mine.
Yet he who would live
For my sake alone,
Is poorer, more wretched
Than he who has none.
I, your sister, Silver,
Pure and fair and white,
I was made, like you, to give
Pleasure and delight.
Mines in Colorado,
And in far Peru,
Yield my shining whiteness up
To be a mate for you.
The forks and spoons,
And the baby’s cup,
The plates that are set
Where the Queen doth sup,
The coffee and teapots,
The cream pitcher, too,
The money to buy them,
All show my hue.
I am Father Iron!
I am not a beauty,
But when called upon, you’ll find
I will do my duty.
Melted in the furnace,
I am wrought and cast,
Making now a tiny tack,
Now an engine vast.
The horseshoes, the boilers,
The stoves, the sinks,
The cable that holds
The good ship with its links,
The tongs and the poker,
The wire so fine,
The pickaxe and shovel,
Are mine, are mine.
Hail, my Father Iron!
I, your son, am Steel.
Heating and then cooling
Men did me anneal.
With the silver’s brightness,
With the strength of iron,
Here I stand, a metal
All men may rely on.
I flash in the sword,
In the dagger keen;
In rails and in engines
My glint is seen.
The scissors, the needle,
The knife and the pen,
And many more things
I have given to men.
All together.
So, ever and ever, hand in hand,
We circle the earth with a four-fold band.
The servants of man so leal and true,
By day and by night his work we do.
THE HOWLERY GROWLERY ROOM
It doesn’t pay to be cross, —
It’s not worth while to try it;
For Mammy’s eyes so sharp
Are very sure to spy it:
A pinch on Billy’s arm,
A snarl or a sullen gloom,
No longer we stay, but must up and away
To the Howlery Growlery room.
Chorus.– Hi! the Howlery! ho! the Growlery!
Ha! the Sniffery, Snarlery, Scowlery!
There we may stay,
If we choose, all day;
But it’s only a smile that can bring us away.
If Mammy catches me
A-pitching into Billy;
If Billy breaks my whip,
Or scares my rabbit silly,
It’s “Make it up, boys, quick!
Or else you know your doom!”
We must kiss and be friends, or the squabble ends
In the Howlery Growlery room.
Chorus.– Hi! the Howlery! ho! the Growlery!
Ha! the Sniffery, Snarlery, Scowlery!
There we may stay,
If we choose, all day;
But it’s only a smile that can bring us away.
So it doesn’t pay to be bad, —
There’s nothing to be won in it;
And when you come to think,
There’s really not much fun in it.
So, come! the sun is out,
The lilacs are all a-bloom;
Come out and play, and we’ll keep away
From the Howlery Growlery room.
Chorus.– Hi! the Howlery! ho! the Growlery!
Ha! the Sniffery, Snarlery, Scowlery!
There we may stay,
If we choose, all day;
But it’s only a smile that can bring us away.
THE SPECKLED HEN
There was once a hen with brown speckled wings and a short black tail. She stood in a shop window, on a bit of wood covered with green baize, and kept watch over the eggs with which the window was filled.
“I may be stuffed,” said the hen, “but I hope I know my duty for all that!”
There were many eggs, and some of them were very different from the eggs to which she had been accustomed; but she did not see what she could do about that.
“Their mothers must be people of very vulgar tastes,” she said, “or else fashions have changed sadly. In my day a hen who laid red or blue or green eggs would have been chased out of the barnyard; but the world has gone steadily backward since then, I have reason to think.”
She was silent, and fixed her eyes on a large white egg which had been recently placed in the window.
There was something strange about that egg. She had never seen one like it. No hen that ever lived could lay such a monstrous thing; even a turkey could not produce one of half the size.
Whence could it have come? She remembered stories that she had heard, when a pullet, of huge birds as tall as the hen-house, called ostriches. Could this be an ostrich egg? If it was, she could not possibly be expected to take care of the chick.
“The idea!” she said. “Why, it will be as big as I am!”
At this moment a hand appeared in the window. It was the shopkeeper’s hand, and it set down before the hen an object which filled her with amazement and consternation.
It looked like an egg: that is, it was shaped and coloured like an egg; but from the top, which was broken, protruded a head which certainly was not that of a chicken.
The head wore a black hat; it had a round, rosy face, something like the shopkeeper’s, and what could be seen of the shoulders was clad in a bottle-green coat, with a bright-red cravat tied under the pink chin.
The little black eyes met the hen’s troubled glance with a bright and cheerful look.
“Good-morning!” said the creature. “It’s a fine day!”
“What are you?” asked the hen, rather sternly. “I don’t approve of your appearance at all. Do you call yourself a chicken, pray?”
“Why, no,” said the thing, looking down at itself. “I – I am a man, I think. Eh? I have a hat, you see.”
“No, you are not!” cried the hen, in some excitement. “Men don’t come out of eggs. You ought to be a chicken, but there is some mistake somewhere. Can’t you get back into your shell, and – a – change your clothes, or do something?”
“I’m afraid not,” said the little man (for he was a man). “I don’t seem to be able to move much; and besides, I don’t think I was meant for a chicken. I don’t feel like a chicken.”
“Oh, but look at your shell!” cried the poor hen. “Consider the example you are setting to all these eggs! There’s no knowing what they will hatch into if they see this sort of thing going on. I will lend you some feathers,” she added, coaxingly, “and perhaps I can scratch round and find you a worm, though my legs are pretty stiff. Come, be a good chicken, and get back into your shell!”
“I don’t like worms,” said the little man, decidedly. “And I am not a chicken, I tell you. Did you ever see a chicken with a hat on?”
“N – no,” replied the hen, doubtfully, “I don’t think I ever did.”
“Well, then!” said the little man, triumphantly.
And the hen was silent, for one cannot argue well when one is stuffed.
The little man now looked about him in a leisurely way, and presently his eyes fell on the great white egg.
“Is that your egg?” he asked, politely.
The hen appreciated the compliment, but replied, rather sadly, “No, it is not. I do not even know whose egg it is. I expect to watch over the eggs in a general way, and I hope I know my duty; but I really do not feel as if I could manage a chicken of that size. Besides,” she added, with a glance at the black hat and the bottle-green coat, “how do I know that it will be a chicken? It may hatch out a – a – sea-serpent, for aught I know.”
“Would you like to make sure?” asked the little man, who really had a kind heart, and would have been a chicken if he could. “There seems to be a crack where this ribbon is tied on. Shall I peep through and see what is inside?”
“I shall be truly grateful if you will!” cried the hen. “I assure you it weighs upon my mind.”
The little man leaned over against the great white egg, and took a long look through the crack.
“Compose yourself!” he said, at last, looking at the hen with an anxious expression. “I fear this will be a blow to you. There are five white rabbits inside this egg!”
The speckled hen rolled her glass eyes wildly about and tried to cackle, but in vain.
“This is too much!” she said. “This is more than I can bear. Tell the shopkeeper that he must get some one else to mind his eggs, for a barnyard where the eggs hatch into rabbits is no place for me.”
And with one despairing cluck, the hen fell off the bit of wood and lay at full length on the shelf.
“It is a pity for people to be sensitive,” said the little man to himself, as he surveyed her lifeless body. “Why are not five rabbits as good as one chicken, I should like to know? After all, it is only a man who can understand these matters.”
And he cocked his black hat, and settled his red necktie, and thought very well of himself.
