The Adventures of A Brownie / As Told to My Child by Miss Mulock

What, my little foolish Ned,
Think you mother's eyes are blind,
That her heart has grown unkind,
And she will not turn her head,
Cannot see, for all her joy,
Her poor jealous little boy?

What though sister be the pet—
Laughs, and leaps, and clings, and loves,
With her eyes as soft as dove's—
Why should yours with tears be wet?
Why such angry tears let fall?
Mother's heart has room for all.

Mother's heart is very wide,
And its doors all open stand:
Lightest touch of tiniest hand
She will never put aside.
Why her happiness destroy,
Foolish, naughty, jealous boy?

Come within the circle bright,
Where we laugh, and dance, and sing,
Full of love to everything;
As God loves us, day and night,
And forgives us. Come—with joy
Mother too forgives her boy.

And so you want a fairy tale,
My little maidens twain?
Well, sit beside the waterfall,
Noisy with last night's rain;

On couch of moss, with elfin spears
Bristling, all fierce to see,
When from the yet brown moor down drops
The lonely April bee.

All the wide valley blushes green,
While, in far depths below,
Wharfe flashes out a great bright eye,
Then hides his shining flow;—

Wharfe, busy, restless, rapid Wharfe,
The glory of our dale;
O I could of the River Wharfe
Tell such a fairy tale!

"The Boy of Egremond," you cry,—
"And all the 'bootless bene:'
We know that poem, every word,
And we the Strid have seen."

No, clever damsels: though the tale
Seems still to bear a part,
In every lave of Wharfe's bright wave,
The broken mother's heart—

Little you know of broken hearts,
My Kitty, blithe and wise,
Grave Mary, with the woman soul
Dawning through childish eyes.

And long, long distant may God keep
The day when each shall know
The entrance to His kingdom through
His baptism of woe!

But yet 'tis good to hear of grief
Which He permits to be;
Even as in our green inland home
We talk of wrecks at sea.

So on this lovely day, when spring
Wakes soft o'er moor and dale,
I'll tell—not quite your wish—but yet
A noble "fairy" tale.

'Twas six o'clock in the morning,
The sea like crystal lay,
When the good troop-ship Birkenhead
Set sail from Simon's Bay.

The Cape of Good Hope on her right
Gloomed at her through the noon:
Brief tropic twilight fled, and night
Fell suddenly and soon.

At eight o'clock in the evening
Dim grew the pleasant land;
O'er smoothest seas the southern heaven
Its starry arch out-spanned.

The soldiers on the bulwarks leaned,
Smoked, chatted; and below
The soldiers' wives sang babes to sleep,
While on the ship sailed slow.

Six hundred and thirty souls held she,
Good, bad, old, young, rich, poor;
Six hundred and thirty living souls—
God knew them all.—Secure

He counted them in His right hand,
That held the hungering seas;
And to four hundred came a voice—
"The Master hath need of these."

On, onward, still the vessel went
Till, with a sudden shock,
Like one that's clutched by unseen Death,
She struck upon a rock.

She filled. Not hours, not minutes left;
Each second a life's gone:
Drowned in their berths, washed overboard,
Lost, swimming, one by one;

Till, o'er this chaos of despair
Rose, like celestial breath,
The law of order, discipline,
Obedience unto death.

The soldiers mustered upon deck,
As mute as on parade;
"Women and children to the boats!"
And not a man gainsayed.

Without a murmur or a moan
They stood, formed rank and file,
Between the dreadful crystal seas
And the sky's dreadful smile.

In face of death they did their work
As they in life would do,
Embarking at a quiet quay—
A quiet, silent crew.

"Now each man for himself. To the boats!"
Arose a passing cry.
The soldier-captain answered, "Swamp
The women and babes?—No, die!"

And so they died. Each in his place,
Obedient to command,
They went down with the sinking ship,
Went down in sight of land.

The great sea oped her mouth, and closed
O'er them. Awhile they trod
The valley of the shadow of death,
And then were safe with God.

My little girlies—What! your tears
Are dropping on the grass,
Over my more than "fairy" tale,
A tale that "really was!"

Nay, dry them. If we could but see
The joy in angels' eyes
O'er good lives, or heroic deaths
Of pure self-sacrifice,—

We should not weep o'er these that sleep—
Their short, sharp struggle o'er—
Under the rolling waves that break
Upon the Afric shore.

God works not as man works, nor sees
As man sees: though we mark
Ofttimes the moving of His hands
Beneath the eternal Dark.

But yet we know that all is well
That He, who loved all these,
Loves children laughing on the moor,
Birds singing in the trees;

That He who made both life and death,
He knoweth which is best:
We live to Him, we die to Him,
And leave Him all the rest.

"What is wrong with my big brother?"
Says the child;
For they two had got no mother
And she loved him like no other:
If he smiled,
All the world seemed bright and gay
To this happy little May.

If to her he sharply spoke,
This big brother—
Then her tender heart nigh broke;
But the cruel pain that woke,
She would smother—
As a little woman can;—
Was he not almost a man?

But when trouble or disgrace
Smote the boy,
She would lift her gentle face—
Surely 'twas her own right place.
To bring joy?
For she loved him—loved him so!
Whether he was good or no

May be he will never feel
Half her love;
Wound her, and forget to heal:
Idle words are sharp as steel:
But above,
I know what the angels say
Of this silent little May.

Don't be afraid of the dark,
My daughter, dear as my soul!
You see but a part of the gloomy world,
But I—I have seen the whole,
And I know each step of the fearsome way,
Till the shadows brighten to open day.

Don't be afraid of pain,
My tender little child:
When its smart is worst there comes strength to bear,
And it seems as if angels smiled,—
As I smile, dear, when I hurt you now.
In binding up that wound on your brow.

Don't be afraid of grief,
'Twill come—as night follows day,
But the bleakest sky has tiny rifts
When the stars shine through—as to say
Wait, wait a little—till night is o'er
And beautiful day come back once more.

O child, be afraid of sin,
But have no other fear,
For God's in the dark, as well as the light;
And while we can feel Him near,
His hand that He gives, His love that He gave,
Lead safely, even to the dark of the grave.

Alfred is gentle as a girl,
But Judith longs to be a boy!
Would cut off every pretty curl
With eager joy!

Hates to be called "my dear"—or kissed:
For dollies does not care one fig:
Goes, sticking hands up to the wrist
In jackets big.

Would like to do whate'er boy can;
Play cricket—even to go school:
It is so grand to be a man!
A girl's a fool!

But Alfred smiles superior love
On all these innocent vagaries.
He'd hate a goose! but yet a dove
Ah, much more rare is!

She's anything but dove, good sooth!
But she's his dear and only sister:
And, had she been a boy, in truth
How he'd have missed her.

So, gradually her folly dies,
And she'll consent to be just human,
When there shines out of girlish eyes
The real Woman.

"Our Father which art in heaven,"
Little Agnes prays,
Though her kneeling is but show,
Though she is too young to know
All, or half she says.
God will hear her, Agnes mild,
God will love the innocent child.

"Our Father which art in heaven."
She has a father here,
Does she think of his kind eyes,
Tones that ne'er in anger rise—
"Yes, dear," or "No, dear."
They will haunt her whole life long
Like a sweet pathetic song.

"Our Father which art in heaven,"
Through thy peaceful prayer,
Think of the known father's face,
Of his bosom, happy place;
Safely sheltered there;
And so blessed—long may He bless!
Think too of the fatherless.

Come along for the work is ready—
Rough it may be, rough, tough and hard—
But—fourteen years old—stout, strong and steady,
Life's game's beginning, lad!—play your card—
Come along.

Mother stands at the door-step crying
Well but she has a brave heart too:
She'll try to be glad—there's nought like trying,
She's proud of having a son like you.
Come along.

Young as she is, her hair is whitening,
She has ploughed thro' years of sorrow deep,
She looks at her boy, and her eyes are brightening,
Shame if ever you make them weep!
Come along.

Bravo! See how the brown cheek flushes!
Ready to work as hard as you can?
I have always faith in a boy that blushes,
None will blush for him, when he's a man.
Come along.

We go on our way together,
Baby, and dog, and I;
Three merry companions,
'Neath any sort of sky;
Blue as her pretty eyes are,
Or gray, like his dear old tail;
Be it windy, or cloudy, or stormy,
Our courage does never fail.

Sometimes the snow lies thickly,
Under the hedge-row bleak;
Then baby cries "Pretty, pretty,"
The only word she can speak.
Sometimes two rivers of water
Run down the muddy lane;
Then dog leaps backwards and forwards
Barking with might and main.

Baby's a little lady,
Dog is a gentleman brave:
If he had two legs as you have
He'd kneel to her like a slave;
As it is he loves and protects her,
As dog and gentleman can;
I'd rather be a kind doggie
I think, than a brute of a man.

She was going home down the lonely street,
A widow-woman with weary feet
And weary eyes that seldom smiled:
She had neither mother, sister, nor child.
She earned her bread with a patient heart,
And ate it quietly and apart,
In her silent home from day to day,
No one to say her "ay," or "nay."

She was going home without care to haste;
What should she haste for? On she paced
Through the snowy night so bleak and wild,
When she thought she heard the cry of a child,
A feeble cry, not of hunger or pain,
But just of sorrow. It came again.
She stopped—she listened—she almost smiled—
"That sounds like a wail of a motherless child."

A house stood open—no soul was there—
Her dull, tired feet grew light on the stair;
She mounted—entered. One bed on the floor,
And Something in it: and close by the door,
Watching the stark form, stretched out still,
Ignorant knowing not good nor ill,
But only a want and a misery wild,
Crouched the dead mother's motherless child.

What next? Come say what would you have done
Dear children playing about in the sun,
Or sitting by pleasant fireside warm,
Hearing outside the howling storm?
The widow went in and she shut the door,
She stayed by the dead an hour or more—
And when she went home through the night so wild,
She had in her arms a sleeping child.

Now she is old and feeble and dull,
But her empty heart is happy and full
If her crust be hard and her cottage poor
There's a young foot tripping across the floor,
Young hands to help her that never tire,
And a young voice singing beside the fire;
And her tired eyes look as if they smiled,—
Childless mother and motherless child.

I took the wren's nest;—
Heaven forgive me!
Its merry architects so small
Had scarcely finished their wee hall,
That empty still and neat and fair
Hung idly in the summer air.
The mossy walls, the dainty door,
Where Love should enter and explore,
And Love sit caroling outside,
And Love within chirp multiplied;—
I took the wren's nest;—
Heaven forgive me!

How many hours of happy pains
Through early frosts and April rains,
How many songs at eve and morn
O'er springing grass and greening corn,
Before the pretty house was made!
One little minute, only one,
And she'll fly back, and find it—gone!
I took the wren's nest;—
Bird, forgive me!

Thou and thy mate, sans let, sans fear,
Ye have before you all the year,
And every wood holds nooks for you,
In which to sing and build and woo
One piteous cry of birdish pain—
And ye'll begin your life again,
Forgetting quite the lost, lost home
In many a busy home to come—
But I?—Your wee house keep I must
Until it crumble into dust.
I took the wren's nest:
God forgive me!

A child's smile—nothing more;
Quiet and soft and grave, and seldom seen,
Like summer lightning o'er,
Leaving the little face again serene.

I think, boy well-beloved,
Thine angel, who did grieve to see how far
Thy childhood is removed
From sports that dear to other children are,

On this pale cheek has thrown
The brightness of his countenance, and made
A beauty like his own—
That, while we see it, we are half afraid,

And marvel, will it stay?
Or, long ere manhood, will that angel fair,
Departing some sad day,
Steal the child-smile and leave the shadow care?

Nay, fear not. As is given
Unto this child the father watching o'er,
His angel up in heaven
Beholds Our Father's face for evermore.

And he will help him bear
His burthen, as his father helps him now;
So he may come to wear
That happy child-smile on an old man's brow.

A little bird flew my window by,
'Twixt the level street and the level sky,
The level rows of houses tall,
The long low sun on the level wall
And all that the little bird did say
Was, "Over the hills and far away."

A little bird sang behind my chair,
From the level line of corn-fields fair,
The smooth green hedgerow's level bound
Not a furlong off—the horizon's bound,
And the level lawn where the sun all day
Burns:—"Over the hills and far away."

A little bird sings above my bed,
And I know if I could but lift my head
I would see the sun set, round and grand,
Upon level sea and level sand,
While beyond the misty distance gray
Is "Over the hills and far away."

I think that a little bird will sing
Over a grassy mound, next spring,
Where something that once was me, ye'll leave
In the level sunshine, morn and eve:
But I shall be gone, past night, past day,
Over the hills and far away.

Said a drop to a drop, "Just look at me!
I'm the finest rain-drop you ever did see:
I have lived ten seconds at least on my pane;
Swelling and filling and swelling again.

"All the little rain-drops unto me run,
I watch them and catch them and suck them up each one:
All the pretty children stand and at me stare;
Pointing with their fingers—'That's the biggest drop there.'"

"Yet you are but a drop," the small drop replied;
"I don't myself see much cause for pride:
The bigger you swell up,—we know well, my friend,—
The faster you run down the sooner you'll end.

"For me, I'm contented outside on my ledge,
Hearing the patter of rain in the hedge;
Looking at the firelight and the children fair,—
Whether they look at me, I'm sure I don't care."

"Sir," cried the first drop, "your talk is but dull;
I can't wait to listen, for I'm almost full;
You'll run a race with me?—No?—Then 'tis plain
I am the largest drop in the whole pane."

Off ran the big drop, at first rather slow:
Then faster and faster, as drops will, you know:
Raced down the window-pane, like hundreds before,
Just reached the window-sill—one splash—and was o'er.

Deux petits enfants Francais,
Monsieur et Mademoiselle.
Of what can they be talking, child?
Indeed I cannot tell.
But of this I am very certain,
You would find naught to blame
In that sweet French politeness—
I wish we had the same.

Monsieur has got a melon,
And scoops it with his knife,
While Mademoiselle sits watching him:
No rudeness here—no strife:
Though could you listen only,
They're chattering like two pies—
French magpies, understand me—
So merry and so wise.

Their floor is bare of carpet,
Their curtains are so thin,
They dine on meagre potage, and
Put many an onion in!
Her snow-white caps she irons:
He blacks his shoes, he can;
Yet she's a little lady
And he's a gentleman.

O busy, happy children!
That light French heart of yours,
Would it might sometimes enter at
Our solemn English doors!
Would that we worked as gaily,
And played, yes, played as well,
And lived our lives as simply
As Monsieur et Mademoiselle.

Young Dandelion
On a hedge-side,
Said young Dandelion,
"Who'll be my bride?

"I'm a bold fellow
As ever was seen,
With my shield of yellow,
In the grass green.

"You may uproot me,
From field and from lane,
Trample me, cut me,—
I spring up again.

"I never flinch, Sir,
Wherever I dwell;
Give me an inch, Sir.
I'll soon take an ell.

"Drive me from garden
In anger and pride,
I'll thrive and harden
By the road-side.

"Not a bit fearful,
Showing my face,
Always so cheerful
In every place."

Said young Dandelion,
With a sweet air,
"I have my eye on
Miss Daisy fair.

"Though we may tarry
Till past the cold,
Her I will marry
Ere I grow old.

"I will protect her
From all kinds of harm,
Feed her with nectar,
Shelter her warm.

"Whate'er the weather,
Let it go by;
We'll hold together,
Daisy and I.

"I'll ne'er give in,—no!
Nothing I fear:
All that I win, O!
I'll keep for my dear."

Said young Dandelion
On his hedge-side,
"Who'll me rely on?
Who'll be my bride?"

My eyes are full, my silent heart is stirred,
Amid these days so bright
Of ceaseless warmth and light;
Summer that will not die,
Autumn, without one sigh
O'er sweet hours passing by—
Cometh that tender note
Out of thy tiny throat,
Like grief, or love, insisting to be heard,
O little plaintive bird!

No need of word
Well know I all your tale—forgotten bird!
Soon you and I together
Must face the winter weather,
Remembering how we sung
Our primrose fields among,
In days when life was young;
Now, all is growing old,
And the warm earth's a-cold,
Still, with brave heart we'll sing on, little bird,
Sing only. Not one word.