And put them on himself. Then he decided To hasten to the king; And, as he traveled towards the royal palace, Each boot was like a wing.

There was a war. The king had need of service In carrying the news. He heard his tale, and said, "I'll use this fellow Who wears the magic shoes."

So little Hop-o'-my-Thumb made mints of money, And his whole family Lived very easy lives, and from his bounty Grew rich as rich could be.

As for the Ogre, in his sleep he tumbled Down from that ledge of rock, And was so bumped and bruised he never rallied, But perished from the shock.

And Hop-o'-my-Thumb, whose influence in high places Was certain to prevail, Made the kind Ogress, who had hidden and fed them, Duchess of Draggletail.



THE BABES IN THE WOOD.

Come, list to my story, More sorry, by far, To her who must tell it, And you who will hear it, Than all others are!

'Tis the darling of each, who Has spirit so mild As to grieve for the Human— The sad man or woman, Or desolate child!

Of eyes, my dear children, Yours are not the first, Through whose teary lashes, In soft, pitying splashes, The warm drops have burst

At hearing it. Many, For hundreds of years, Have in the same fashion Their heartfelt compassion Shown thus—with their tears!

A dying father in his arms Two children did enfold. The eldest one, a little boy, Was only three years old; Even less than that had served to tint The baby's head with gold.

The mother, too, lay ill to death, No human power might save, And to her darlings, that same hour, Her farewell blessing gave. Father and mother—one in life— Were laid in the same grave.

But, ere the latest breath was drawn, The father's brother came— Nearest of kin, upon whose love The orphaned ones had claim— And he made oath to cherish them As his own blood and name.

The will devised three hundred pounds A year unto the son, Three hundred, on her marriage-day, To Jane, the little one. Thus it was from the uncle's greed That trouble first begun.

For if, by chance, they both should die, He was to have their gold; He felt no love for either child— His heart was hard and cold. And, while he promised fair, he planned A scheme both bad and bold.

A twelvemonth did his darksome mind Plot for the dreadful deed. Two brutal ruffians he hired To help him in his need; And yet, so secret were his ways, None knew to intercede.

He formed a wily, plausive tale, And told it everywhere, How the two children were to go, Under the best of care— Two friends of his—for holiday To London, for the fair.

The horses stood before the gate, The ruffians twain astride; And gay with scarlet girth and rein They started, side by side. O, blithe the babies' spirits were, That they could have a ride!

For every pretty sight they saw, For every sound they heard, The boy had noisy laugh or shout, The girl had winsome word— He questioned, never satisfied, She chattered like a bird.

Meanwhile each ruffian surly sat, In dark and restless mood; Little the prattlers, in their joy, Such silence understood, As on through the warm early day They rode towards the wood.

They reached the leafy wilderness, And then the way grew wild; But ever with new glee the babes The gathering gloom beguiled. Until, at last, quite cheered and won, One of the ruffians smiled.

Love had o'ercome within his breast His wicked avarice. "I will not kill the little things," He said, "for any price!" Then passed hot words between the two, But only once or twice,

For blows fell, and the kindly one Dropped to the earth and died; The children sank upon the ground, Trembling and terrified, And clung together, wondering, And moaned, and sobbed, and cried.

Then he who lived led them away, Both shivering with dread; They begged for food; he paused a space; "Stay here awhile," he said, "And I will go into the town At once, and fetch you bread."

He went. In their sweet innocence They trusted to his word; Meanwhile, the sparkling morning sun With a grey cloud was blurred; And long, in vain, they waited there, Nor cried again, nor stirred!

How can I write the mournful end— And tell how, up and down, At last, by hunger driven, they stray Over the mosses brown— She clutching at his little coat, He clinging to her gown?

More than one day—more than one night, Comes on them there alone! They search for blackberries, so weak And starving they are grown, Now through a thicket of wild brier, Now 'gainst a hindering stone!

Then they lie down to die, poor babes! The cruel ground receives Their little bodies as a bed; Long time the south wind grieves Above them; and a hovering bough A pall of shadow weaves; And robin-red-breasts pity them, And cover them with leaves!



THE THREE LITTLE PIGS

Ah, very, very poor was she— Old Dame Pig, with her children three! Robust, beautiful little ones Were those three sons, Each wearing always, without fail, A little fanciful knot in his tail.

But never enough of sour or sweet Had they to eat; And so, one day, with a piteous squeak, Did the mother speak: "My sons, your fortune you must seek!" And out in the world, as they were sent, The three pigs went.

Trotting along, the first one saw A man who carried a bundle of straw. "Give me some straw for a house and bed," The little pig said. Straightway, not even waiting a bit, The kind man did as he was bid; And the little pig built a house of it.

But he was no more than settled, before A wolf came along and knocked at the door, Tap-tap, and cried, "Little pig, little pig, let me come in!" But the pig replied, "No, no, by the hair of my chinny, chin, chin!" The old wolf grumbled, and added beside, "Then I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house in!"

He was gray and big, And he huffed and he puffed and he blew the house in, And he ate up the poor little pig.

The very next day, All blithe and gay, The second little pig went marching away To the world to find his fortune. And when He met two men, Who bore on their shoulders bunches of furze, "My gentle sirs, Give me some furze for a house and bed!" The little pig said. They gave it him freely, every whit, And the little pig built a house of it.

But he could no more than get in before The wolf came along and knocked at the door: "Little pig, little pig, let me come in!" But the pig replied, "No, no, by the hair of my chinny, chin, chin!" Then the old wolf growled, and added beside, "Then I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house in!"

He was fierce and big, And he huffed and he puffed, And he puffed and he huffed, And he blew the house in, And he ate up the poor little pig.

And then the third little pig went out, With his curly tail and his saucy snout, Up to all kinds of pranks and tricks; And he met a man with a load of bricks, And he said, "I suppose You are perfectly willing to give me those?"

By the begging he got them every one, And in a trice Was the house begun, And very shortly the house was done, Plastered and snug and nice.

And along came the same wolf as before, And knocked at the door, Thump, thump, and cried, "Little pig, little pig, let me come in!" But the pig replied, "No, no, by the hair of my chinny, chin, chin!" Then the wolf filled his cheeks out on each side, Like a bellows, to blow, And he howled, "O ho! Then I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house in!"

Well, he huffed and he puffed and he huffed, And he puffed and he huffed and he puffed, But with all his huffing, And all his puffing, The house would not fall in!

And so, despite His appetite, He was forced to go with never a bite, And for once, at least, was cheated out Of the little pig with the saucy snout.

Of the wily kind, Though, he was, and he whined, "I know, little pig, where we can find Some nice fresh turnips!" Pig grunted, "Where?" "O, over at Smith's, in his home field— It's not far there. If it's pleasant weather Shall we go together To-morrow at six?" "Yes," piggie squealed.

But what should the little pig contrive But to rise at five Next day, and to go through the early dew To the field where the turnips grew; They were plenty and sweet, And he ate of them all he cared to eat, And took enough for his dinner, and then Went home again.

The wolf came promptly at six o'clock, Gave a friendly knock, And asked the pig, "Are you ready to go?" "Why, I'd have you know I've already been there, and beside I've enough for dinner," the pig replied.

The wolf saw then He was cheated again; But, "I know where's a lovely apple tree," In a winsome voice said he. And the wise little pig, from where he sat, Peered out and smiled, "Where's that?" "At the Merry Garden; if you'll be fair, And it's pleasant weather, We two together At five in the morning will go there."

Ah, sly and cunning The little pig was, for as early as four He was out next day, and running, running, Hoping to get the apples before The wolf was up. But the apple-tree Proved twice as far as he thought 'twould be.

He climbed the boughs in the greatest haste, And thought to himself, "I'll only taste, As a bit of a lunch." But soon, crunch, crunch, He had eaten a score—then what should he see But the big gray wolf just under the tree!

Yes, there he stood, Trying to look as meek as he could, And he said, "Little pig, are the apples good?" Pig thought he should fall from where he sat, So heavy his heart went pit-a-pat. But he answered, "The nicest under the sun! I'll throw down one!"

The wolf ran after it as he threw it, And, before he knew it, The pig was out of the tree, and as fleet As his four little feet Could scamper he fled, On, into his house, while after him sped The wolf, with a savage voice and face, In a furious chase. He was long and slim, But the little pig proved too swift for him.

Still, he came again the very next day, And he knocked and called "Little pig, I pray, You will go to the Shanklin Fair with me. Be ready, and I will call at three!"

Now the pig, as he had always done, Got the start of the wolf, and went at one. At the fair he bought him a butter churn, And with it started out to return; But who should he meet— The very first one he chanced to spy— Upon the street, But the wolf! and it frightened him dreadfully.

So he crept inside His churn to hide; It began to roll; he began to ride; Around and around, Along the ground, He passed the wolf with a bump and bound.

He was frightened worse than he'd frightened the pig, By the funny, rumbling rig; And he fled in dismay Far out of his own and the little pig's way.

Yet in due time—for I suppose He was nearly starved—his pattering toes Were heard again at the little pig's door. Such a haunted look his visage wore, When the tale he told Of the beast that bumped and bounded and rolled, Up hill, down hill, and everywhere, And chased him away from the Shanklin Fair!

Then, with all his might, The little pig laughed outright, Giving a jocular, scornful shout With his saucy snout, As he cried, "O, how would you like to learn 'Twas a churn, and that I was in the churn!"

Then the wolf exclaimed, "I hate your tricks, Your bolted door and your house of bricks! I'll eat you anyway—that I'll do! I'll come down the chimney after you!"

But the pig built a fire, high and hot, And filled with water his dinner pot, And just as the wolf came down the flue, Scraping his ribs as he slipped through, What did he do But lift the cover, and let him fall Into the pot—hide, hair and all!

And what next he did Was to slide the lid Quick over the pot; "It's boiling hot— It'll maybe cook him, and maybe not," He cried in glee, "But I'll let him be, And when it is dinner-time I'll see!"

That day he dined quite to his mind; And he mused to himself, "I'm half inclined To think, by the hair of my chinny, chin, chin, That this is the best way to take wolves in!"



GOODY TWO-SHOES.

Versified by Mrs. Clara Doty Bates.

Two-Shoes, Two-Shoes, Little Goody Two-Shoes! Do you know about her? Well, I'm ready now to tell How the little creature came By so odd a name.

It was very long ago, In the days of good Queen Bess, When upon the cold world's care, Fatherless and motherless,

There were thrown two helpless ones, Destitute as they could be; Tom, they called the little boy, And the girl was Margery.

Many a day they cried for food When the cup-board shelves were bare; Many an hour they roamed the streets Scarcely knowing why or where.

As to kindred, all were dead; As to shelter, they had none; As to shoes, Tom had a pair; Little Margery had but one!

One-Shoe, One-Shoe, Think of Little One-Shoe! Think how never a pretty boot Was buttoned on the tender foot; Nor yet a slipper, fairy-light, With dainty knot or buckle bright!

But above our human woes Bends an always loving Heaven; And to every hungry cry Is there somewhere answer given.

Kind eyes watched the wandering ones, Pitied their forlorn distress; Grieved to note Tom's ragged coat, And Margery's tattered dress.

'Twas the village clergyman, And he sought them tenderly, Gave them warm, soft clothes to wear. Ordered shoes for Margery.

"Two shoes, two shoes, Oh, see my two shoes!" So did little Margery cry, When the cobbler came to try If they fitted trim and neat On the worn and tired feet: That is how and why she came By so strange a name.

Tom went off to London town; Margery went to village school; Apt she was, and quick to learn, Docile to the simplest rule.

Out from the long alphabet Letters looked at her and smiled, Almost seemed to nod and speak, Glad to know so bright a child,

Ranged themselves in winsome words; Then in sentences. Indeed, Quite before she knew the fact, Margery had learned to read.

Two-Shoes, Two-Shoes, Eager Goody Two-Shoes! When the magic art she knew, She planned to help poor children too; And those who had no chance to learn Their letters, she would teach in turn.

Now, in the days of good Queen Bess, Few books were printed, very few— None, scarcely, for the little folks; So Margery studied what to do.

She cut from proper blocks of wood Sets of the letters: A, B, C; And in some cosy shady place Would group the children round her knee

And teach them—not alone to read, But how to spell, and how to sing; And how to practice gentle ways, And to be kind to everything.

Two-Shoes, Two-Shoes, So grew Goody Two-Shoes! First a maiden, comely, sweet; Then a woman, wise, discreet; Called now, as a courtesy, Little Mrs. Margery.

An honored, faithful teacher she! And every year an added grace, More fair than youth's fair roses are, Blossomed upon her charming face.

All living things seemed drawn to her: A helpless lamb, whose dam had died, She reared and tended till he ran Tame as a kitten at her side;

A sky-lark stolen from its nest Sang on her finger, though he knew His unclipped wings were free to soar At will into the heaven's blue;

A raven which had fought and torn Its captor's hand with savage beak, And which at first could only croak, She taught in gracious words to speak;

Jumper, the dog, watched all her steps With constant eyes and jealous love; A great cat purred and rubbed her dress; And on her shoulder perched a dove.

Two-Shoes, Two-Shoes, Ah me, Margery Two-Shoes! Maybe the days of good Queen Bess Were times of wisdom; nevertheless, Witches (the people said) might be— And a witch they thought our Margery!

'Twas Nickey Noodle, a simpleton, Who raised the cry, "A witch, a witch!" Then she was summoned to the court, Amused, or grieved, she scarce knew which.

Plenty of friends, however, proved How false was Justice Shallow's plea That "She must be a witch, because— Because of the raven, don't you see?"

Sir Edward Lovell, a baronet, Who stood in court and saw her grace Her sweet good sense, her dignity, And the pure beauty of her face,

Sighed heavily in his high-born breast As Mrs. Margery was set free, Saying, "I know she is a witch, For, ah, she so bewitches me!"

He watched her go her quiet ways, And vowed, whatever might betide, If his best love could win her heart And hand, then she should be his bride.

Two-Shoes, Two-Shoes— Lady Lovell, if she choose! Her the noble lover wooed, Humbly, as a lover should, Eagerly, as lover ought, With entire heart and thought.

What her answer, all may guess, For the old church chime that rung Its next wedding anthem sung With a most delighted tongue:

"Two-Shoes, Two-Shoes, Wedding day of Two-Shoes! Barefoot lass but yesterday, Lady Lovell is to-day! Two-Shoes, Two-Shoes, Lovely Lady Two-Shoes!"

Who is this that rides so fast, With plumed hat and cheek of brown, With golden trappings on his horse, Gallant and gay from London town?

He hears the bells, he strikes his spurs, The flecks of foam are on his rein, The dust of journey whitens him, He leans to see the bridal train!

Two-Shoes, Two-Shoes, Lady Goody Two-Shoes! Tom it is, come home once more! Even now he's at the door, Rich and grand as any king— Come to bless the wedding ring!



SAARCHINKOLD!

Nose to window, Still as a mouse, Watching grampa "Bank the house." Out of the barrow he shovels the tan, And he piles and packs it as hard as he can "All about the house's feet," Says "Phunny-kind," Nose to the window, Eager and sweet. Now she comes to the entry door: "Grampa—what are you do that for? Are you puttin' stockin's on to the house?" (Found her tongue, has Still-as-a-Mouse.)

Grandpa twinkles out of his eyes, Straightens his aching back, and tries To look as solemn as Phunny-kind. But the child says: "Grampa, is it the wind That keeps you a-shakin' an' shakin' so?" Then the old man, shaking the more, says: "No! But I'm bankin' the house, Miss Locks-o-gold, To keep out the dreadful— Sa-archin' Cold!"

And away he chuckles, barrow and all: "'Mazin' thing," he says, "to be small! Folks says the best things 't ever they do Afore they git old 'nough to know!"

Phunny-kind puzzles her queer, wee brain As slowly she toddles in again: —"Is she a nawful, ugly, old Giant—or what—this 'Sa-archinkold?'"

She stands by the clock in the corner, now: "I wonder," she says, "does the old clock know?" But the great clock TICKS! And the grim clock TOCKS! Away at the top of his ghostly box; The round Full Moon (in his forehead) smiles; But with all his wisdom, or all his wiles, Though he knows very well, He never will tell Should he tick and tock till a century old What they mean by The Sa-archinkold!

In the great, square room, by a cheerful flame In the fire-place, bending above her frame, Is grandma, snapping her chalky string Across and across a broad, bright thing. "Gramma, what you are a-doin' here?" "I'm a-makin' a 'comfort,' my little dear; For grandpa and I are a-gittin' old. And we're afeared o' the Sa-archin' Cold."

When the daylight fades, and the shadows fall Flickering down from the fire-dogs tall, Comes Uncle Phil, from his school and his books. "Uncle Phil, I know by your smile-y looks— You'll let me—get on your knee—jus' so— An' you'll tell me somefing I want to know: 'Cos, you see, Uncle Phil, I've got to be told Who she is—they call her 'The Sa-archinkold.'"

Uncle Phil looks up; Uncle Phil looks down; And he wags his head; And he tries to frown; But at last he cries In a great surprise: "Why, yes! to be sure! to be sure, I'll tell For I know the old dame, of old, right well:

"Now Jack is a fine old fellow, you see; Spicy, and full of his pranks, is he: Snipping off noses, just for fun, And sticking 'em on again when he is done; A-pinching at pretty, soft ears and cheeks; A-wakin' folks up with his jolly freaks; But a—h! for your life Look sharp for his wife!

"For she comes after, and comes to stay— Welcome or not—for a month and a day! She plots, and she plans, she sneaks, and she crawls Till she finds a way through the thickest of walls!"

"ZH——ZH! Did you ever meet a More dreadful creatur! She's Jack Frost's wife! And the plague of his life!

"ZH!—ZH! I'm all of a shiver, Heart, lungs and liver! When I think of that old SAARCHINKOLD!

"Oh—oo!" cries Phunny-kind, "how does she look?" "To be sure! I'll picture her just like a book. —Her nose—is an icicle, sharp and strong, To poke in at every hole and crack; Her eyes gleam frostily all night long— But who knows whether they're blue or black?

"She brings on her back An astonishing pack. Like a blacksmith's bellows, marvellous big; And while she dances a horrible jig, Out of this bellows a doleful tune She skre—eels away, in the dark o' the Moon!

"But if ever she works with a wicked will, 'Tis when she is quiet, and sly, and still. She pretends that old Jack leaves his work but half done, She 'wishes for once he'd be quit of his fun!' So she follows him up with her sour, ugly phiz, And wherever she goes, you may know she means 'biz.

"Look sharp when she peeps through the crack o' the door! Look sharp when she hides away under the floor! She'll crack the bare ground with a terrible bang! And out from the clap boards the nails will go, spang!

"She'll spoil the potatoes (if once she gets in), And she'll shake all the people whose bed-clothes are thin! She'll stop the old clock in the dead o' the night, And make him hold up both his hands in a fright; And—what she won't do, Is more than I know!

"ZH——Zh! I'm all of a shiver, Heart, lungs, and liver! Jist always, whiniver I think of that o—o—ld SA-ARCHINKOLD!"

Then Phunny-kind shivers a little, too; And heaves a deep sigh; and says, "Are you froo?" Then slides down, quietly, to the floor, Doubtfully watching the outer door.

She says, "Is my bed got a fing like you said— A 'comfut'—vat I can put over my head?" "(Oh, Phil! naughty boy!)" says grandma;—"yes, dear Your bed's got a 'comfut,' so never you fear— And you should be in it, for see, the old clock Points just to your bed-time, and says 'tick-tock!'"

"Well, grampa, I'm goin' as quick as I can, If you'll only give me a handful of 'tan.' "What for?" "Oh, I'm jus' goin' to take it to bed, 'Cos, I recollec' every word that you said, And gramma, and Phil; for all of you told How 'comfuts,' and 'tan'll' keep out SA-ARCHINKOLD!"



Errata

Missing or invisible punctuation has been silently supplied.

From the time it was put in the ground, [gound] Then, with a relish, stood chuckling and grinning, [are lish] Why, a nest, of course, and an egg or so, [text damaged: reconstructed from "an egg o o"] "I wonder," she says, "does the old clock know?" [final close quote missing] "She'll spoil the potatoes (if once she gets in), [open quote missing] "(Oh, Phil! naughty boy!)" says grandma;—"yes, dear If you'll only give me a handful of 'tan.'" [close quotes missing]

Text unchanged:

"Caspar," "Balthassar," "Melchoir"—

Down under t'was dark as a mine;

If you may sit on this flower, why may'nt I?

Line division unchanged (The Gold Spinner):

The second day 'twas the same; But the third a messenger Came in from the mountains to the queen,

THE END