LEGEND OF NORTHMEN’S ROCK.[5]
(Thorfin, 1007.)

Have you heard it—the Northmen’s Rune of the Rose
In the climes of the sunbeams pale?
’Twas—Far from the night of the six months’ snows
Went the barque of the silver sail.
’Twas—Far from the lands of the frozen fens
Lay the lands of the sunshine clear,
And Thorfin followed the osprey’s pens,
With his bride from Fiord Fere,
To the land of the lily and rose,
To the land where the wild woods sing;
Oh, happy the bride of the North, who goes
On the barque of the silver wing!
The palace a pile of crystal shone,
And its ice walls were mingled with fire,
And minstrels sat round the mailed throne,
With red torch, the saga and lyre.
“I have married a wife,” said Thorfin, young,
“And my bride is tender and fair;
And I’ve heard the tale by the minstrels sung,
Of the land of the golden air,
Of the land of the lily and rose,
Of the land where the sun-birds sing,
Where the purple vine of the wined grape grows,
And the winters are bright with spring.
“My crystal sails in the silver mist,
I will lift where the warm winds play,
And over the seas of amethyst,
I will bear my bride away
Far over the sea-road Eric the Red,
Past Helluland the fair,
To the pine-plumed mountain that lifts its head
In the land of the golden air;
To the land of the lily and rose.
The land where the sun-birds sing,
Where the purple vine of the wined grape grows,
And the winters are bright with spring.”
From the fiords white moved the lateen sail,
From the fiords white and gray,
Where the nights are fire and the sun is pale,
And snow-mists veil the day.
“Farewell” sang the bards in the crystal halls,
To the barque of Thorfin fair.
“We still will sing at the festivals
Of the land of the golden air;
Of the land of the lily and rose,
The land where the sun-birds sing;
Oh, happy the bride of the North that goes
On the barque of the silver wing.”
They came to the slopes of the New World’s Bay,
And the either hills were green,
But a red canoe with plumes of gray
In the dusky nights was seen.
Then Thorfin said: “The sun is bright,
And its summers are wondrous fair,
But the wily savage lurks at night
In the land of the golden air;
In the land of the lily and rose,
The land where the sun-birds sing,
Where the purple vine of the wined grape grows,
And the winters are bright with spring.
“We will write our names on the sea walls clear,
On the reedy rocks by the Bay;
And the legend leave of our young child here,
Then sail o’er the seas away.”
So back o’er the waves of the windy seas,
The child of their love they bear,
To dream of the mount and its sun-crowned trees
In the land of the golden air;
In the land of the lily and rose,
In the land where the sun-birds sing,
Where the purple vine of the wined grape grows,
And the winters are bright with spring.
To the fiords wild came the lateen sail,
To the fiords white and gray,
Where the nights are fire, and the sun is pale,
And the snow-mists veil the day.
“The sail comes back,” said the bards of the halls,
“From the land of lands most fair;
Now what shall we sing at the festivals?
For sorrow and death are there,
In the land of the lily and rose,
In the land where the sun-birds sing,
And the world is not happy wherever goes
The barque with the silver wing.”
On their royal pens round Mount Hope Bay,
The ospreys scream in the noons,
And the early bluebirds flit, and stray
The herons white, in the moons.
And the rocks of the Bay, the legends say,
The name of the young child bear;
Though centuries nine have passed away,
From the booths of Thorfin there;
And this was the Northmen’s Rune of the Rose,
And the land of the sunshine clear,
And the bride who sailed from the Norland snows
And the waters of Fiord Fere.
[5]This Rock may be seen on the East shore of the Mt. Hope Lands, near the Soldiers’ Home.

The last stories told at the folk-lore meetings in the Art Palace were largely in verse. One of these was a peculiar kind of old New England narrative, told in the “chink, chink” manner; another was an Illinois wonder-tale, with a peculiar refrain.

The old Puritan baby-story of the “wee, wee pig” was also recited in the colonial manner.

We end our folk-lore stories with these curious examples of legend and traditions.

THE ROCK OF THE ILLINOIS.
A BALLAD.

The Illini lived in the climes of the flowers,
Where the air-swimming birds in the sunshine delight,
Where the summers were splendors of magical hours,
And the day was a sun-torch, a star-torch the night.
Oh, fair were their lives on the carpets of bloom,
And loud were their fire-songs of triumph and joy,
And redly their night-torches danced through the gloom
At their feasts on the Rock of the blue Illinois:
The gray rock that hung
O’er the billows of blooms,
Where the rain-plover sung
In the dark under glooms,
And cool, cool ran the prairie river!
That Rock was the Indian’s glory and pride,
The crown of the venturous chiefs, massive and strong,
The prairies beneath it, and dimpling beside
The bright laughing face of the river of song.
But the Plumes of the Lakes all united at last,
The tribes of the Illini proud to destroy,
And down from the northern plains swept like a blast,
And laid siege to the Rock of the blue Illinois:
The gray rock that hung
O’er the billows of blooms,
Where the rain-plover sung
In the dark under glooms,
And cool, cool ran the prairie river!
“Ho! Ho!” cry the chiefs of the Illini proud,
To the braves of the Lakes on the prairie below,
“Ye have come in the sun, ye will go in the cloud,
As the hatchet-wolves run to the timber—Ho! ho!”—
“Ho! Ho!” answer back the Lake Plumes, in their ire,
“’Tis the North winds that wither, and waste and destroy,
We have come in the blast, and will go in the fire.”
Then loud laughed the Rock of the blue Illinois:
The gray rock that hung
O’er the billows of blooms,
Where the rain-plover sung
In the dark under glooms,
And cool, cool ran the prairie river.
And gayly their sun-dance the Illini kept,
And boastful they rested at eve in the dews,
But nearer and nearer their wily foes crept,
And the cool river filled with their rocking canoes.
Seven suns lit the day; seven moons lit the night;
Then fled from the Illini’s faces the joy;
For the water was low, and the springs sunk from sight,
And the foe held the banks of the blue Illinois!
Oh, the gray rock that hung
O’er the billows of blooms,
Where the rain-plover sung
In the dark under glooms,
And cool, cool ran the prairie river!
They lowered their gourds to the river in vain;
They crept toward the rippling waters to die;
They called on the gods of the cloudlands for rain,
But answered them only the flames of the sky.
They delved, but in vain, in famishing springs;
They sought, but in vain, the red Plumes to deploy;
Their thirst deeper burned, and the rain-plover’s wings
Brought no cloud to the air of the blue Illinois:
To the gray rock that hung
O’er the billows of blooms,
Where the rain-plover sung
In the dark under glooms,
And cool, cool ran the prairie river!
An Indian mother crept down to the tide,
On her famishing bosom her babe newly born;
The cool waters rippled the rock ferns beside,
And sweetly the rain-plover sung in the corn.
“Back!” shouted the foe, with their cross-bows upraised:
She drew to her fever-spent bosom her boy;
And her thin, withered face to the blazing sky raised,
And leaped, and lay dead in the blue Illinois!
Oh, the gray rock that hung
O’er the billows of blooms,
Where the rain-plover sung
In the dark under glooms,
And cool, cool ran the prairie river!
“Ho! Ho!” cried the Plumes of the Northern Lakes proud,
To the braves on the Rock whose red warfare was done.
“Ho! Ho! we came down in the billows of cloud,
But our feet will go back in the paths of the sun.”
One by one sunk the braves on the high Rock to die;
One by one did the gray wolves of fever destroy;
And the Northern winds blew, and the waves rippled by,
And the rain-plover sang on the blue Illinois!
Oh, the gray rock that hung
O’er the billows of blooms,
Where the rain-plover sung
In the dark under glooms,
And cool, cool ran the prairie river!
Their red wars were ended, their victories past.
They perished, the cool waters singing below;
“Ho! Ho!” again shouted the Plumes of the blast;
But only the silent Rock echoed “Ho! Ho!”
’Twas so, fever maddened, the Illini died,
Whose bright, airy tents filled the prairies with joy,
And the rain-plover sings o’er their white bones beside
The gray, crumbling Rock of the blue Illinois!
But often the boatman his moonlit oar lifts,
And holds in the air, and his boat gliding slow,
He listens—and o’er him a thin echo drifts.
“Ho! Ho!” and re-echoes “Ho! Ho!” and “Ho! Ho!”
Like the breath of the dying it comes, and is gone;
Like the shuddering leaves that the still frosts destroy,
And sweetly the rain-plover sings in the corn,
When the morning breeze ripples the blue Illinois!
And the gray rocks still hang
O’er the billows of blooms,
Where the rain-plover sang
In the dark under glooms,
And cool runs the prairie river!

“THE WEE WEE PIG.”

There was, once on a time, a wee wee old woman who lived in a wee wee house near Cockermouth in old England. One day when the wee wee old woman was sweeping her wee wee house with a wee wee broom, she found a wee wee sixpence. So she took her wee wee sixpence and went to market and bought a wee wee pig, and started her wee wee pig on the road to her wee wee home. The wee wee pig went along very well until they came to a bridge, which the wee wee old woman could not persuade, coax, or force her wee wee pig to cross. So the wee wee old woman left her wee wee pig, and went back until she came to a stick.

Said the wee wee old woman, “Oh, stick, do beat wee wee pig; wee wee pig won’t go over bridge, and I sha’n’t git home to-night!” But the stick wouldn’t beat wee wee pig. So the wee wee old woman went along until she came to a fire.

Said the wee wee old woman, “Oh, fire, do burn stick; stick won’t beat wee wee pig, wee wee pig won’t go over bridge, and I sha’n’t git home to-night!” But the fire wouldn’t burn the stick. So the wee wee old woman went along till she came to some water.

Said the wee wee old woman, “Oh, water, do quench fire; fire won’t burn stick, stick won’t beat wee wee pig, wee wee pig won’t go over bridge, and I sha’n’t git home to-night!” But the water wouldn’t quench the fire. So the wee wee old woman went along till she came to an ox.

Said the wee wee old woman, “Oh, ox, do drink water; water won’t quench fire, fire won’t burn stick, stick won’t beat wee wee pig, wee wee pig won’t go over bridge, and I sha’n’t git home to-night!” But the ox wouldn’t drink water. So the wee wee old woman went along till she came to a butcher.

HORTICULTURAL BUILDING AND WOMAN’S BUILDING.

Said the wee wee old woman, “Oh, butcher, do kill ox; ox won’t drink water, water won’t quench fire, fire won’t burn stick, stick won’t beat wee wee pig, wee wee pig won’t go over bridge, and I sha’n’t git home to-night!” But the butcher wouldn’t kill the ox. So the wee wee old woman went along till she came to a rope.

Said the wee wee old woman, “Oh, rope, do hang butcher; butcher won’t kill ox, ox won’t drink water, water won’t quench fire, fire won’t burn stick, stick won’t beat wee wee pig, wee wee pig won’t go over bridge, and I sha’n’t git home to-night!” But the rope wouldn’t hang butcher. So the wee wee old woman went along till she came to a rat.

Said the wee wee old woman, “Oh, rat, do gnaw rope; rope won’t hang butcher, butcher won’t kill ox, ox won’t drink water, water won’t quench fire, fire won’t burn stick, stick won’t beat wee wee pig, wee wee pig won’t go over bridge, and I sha’n’t git home to-night!” But the rat wouldn’t gnaw the rope. So the wee wee old woman went along till she came to a cat.

Said the wee wee old woman, “Oh, cat, do kill rat; rat won’t gnaw rope, rope won’t hang butcher, butcher won’t kill ox, ox won’t drink water, water won’t quench fire, fire won’t burn stick, stick won’t beat wee wee pig, wee wee pig won’t go over bridge, and I sha’n’t git home to-night!” But the cat wouldn’t kill the rat. So the wee wee old woman went along till she came to a dog.

Said the wee wee old woman, “Oh, dog, do kill cat; cat won’t kill rat, rat won’t gnaw rope, rope won’t hang butcher, butcher won’t kill ox, ox won’t drink water, water won’t quench fire, fire won’t burn stick, stick won’t beat wee wee pig, wee wee pig won’t go over bridge, and I sha’n’t git home to-night!” But the dog wouldn’t kill the cat. So the wee wee old woman went along till she came to a bear.

Said the wee wee old woman, “Oh, bear, do kill dog; dog won’t kill cat, cat won’t kill rat, rat won’t gnaw rope, rope won’t hang butcher, butcher won’t kill ox, ox won’t drink water, water won’t quench fire, fire won’t burn stick, stick won’t beat wee wee pig, wee wee pig won’t go over bridge, and I sha’n’t git home to-night!” But the bear wouldn’t kill dog. So the wee wee old woman went along till she came to a lion.

Said the wee wee old woman, “Oh, lion, do kill bear; bear won’t kill dog, dog won’t kill cat, cat won’t kill rat, rat won’t gnaw rope, rope won’t hang butcher, butcher won’t kill ox, ox won’t drink water, water won’t quench fire, fire won’t burn stick, stick won’t beat wee wee pig, wee wee pig won’t go over bridge, and I sha’n’t git home to-night!” But the lion wouldn’t kill bear.

The poor old wee wee woman was now in a dreadful quandary. The lion was king of beasts, and the wee wee old woman didn’t know anything that could kill the lion. So the wee wee old woman sat down on an old stump, discouraged and all tired out.

Presently the wee wee old woman saw a wee little black flea, on her checked apron.

So just in joke and for nonsense the wee wee old woman said, “Oh, wee wee flea, do kill lion; lion wont kill bear, bear won’t kill dog, dog won’t kill cat, cat won’t kill rat, rat won’t gnaw rope, rope won’t hang butcher, butcher won’t kill ox, ox won’t drink water, water won’t quench fire, fire won’t burn stick, stick won’t beat wee wee pig, wee wee pig won’t go over bridge, and I sha’n’t git home to-night!”

Now the wee wee flea was a kind-souled, womanish little wee wee flea, and no sooner was she made acquainted with the poor old wee wee woman’s trouble than the wee wee flea gave a spring and lighted just inside the lion’s right nostril, out of the reach of his paw.

Here the wee wee flea began to bite the inside of the lion’s nose so sharp that he got dreadful mad, and just out of spite began to kill the bear, whereupon the bear began to kill the dog, the dog began to kill the cat, the cat began to kill the rat, the rat began to gnaw the rope, the rope began to hang the butcher, the butcher began to kill the ox, the ox began to drink the water, the water began to quench the fire, the fire began to burn the stick, the stick began to beat the wee wee pig, the wee wee pig began to go over the bridge, and the wee wee old woman got home time enough to go to bed that night.

A CHINK CHINK STORY.

The old story-tellers in the sea-faring towns used to strike their clenched hands on their knees so as to make a sound like the chinking of money.

THE WISE LITTLE WOMAN WHO OPENED THE PEWS.[6]

I.

Have you heard of the tropical Isles of June,
The coral isles with their splendors of palms,
Where the sails hang loose in the languorous noon,
And a dusky sun is the rising moon,
And the Southern Cross hangs over the sea
Like the jewels of Heaven? Ah, me! ah, me!
Those gardens of gold in the opal main,
How they tempted the souls of the pilots of Spain!
But as John the old Sailor was wont to say,
When he told old tales in his comical way,
“’Tis only the gold that does good that is good—
And only the rightful gold is gain.
Alas for the spoil of the pilots of Spain!
’Twas fool’s gold all.”
DRAW-BRIDGES.

II.

Our John was a sailor, Sailor John,
A grizzly old sailor of Provincetown Bay,
And one queer old tale that he used to tell
By the bright fire-dogs to the boys now gone,
And the fisher-folk—I remember well.
He would tell it to us in his odd old way,
After the revels on Christmas Day,
And at evening after the hours of play.
He would lock his hands and strike them upon
His knees, like this: chink, chink, chink, chink.
It sounds like coins of gold, I know,
It sounds like coins of gold—but oh,
When you open your hands there is nothing there
But a goldless chasm of empty air!—
’Twas fool’s gold all.

III.

Our John the sailor, Sailor John,
He used to tell the tale this way,
In a very slow and deliberate way,
After the storms upon Provincetown Bay:
“’Tis about Sir Francis Drake of the Tay,
Who was born in a hut beside the Tavy,
A famous salt in Elizabeth’s day,
The old sea-dog of the British Navy.
He guarded the coast of England well,
And haunted the seas, that old invader,
And gathered spoils from the Spanish war,
From the Isles of June to Cristobel,
And flouted King Philip off Trafalgar,
And scattered the ships of the Great Armada.
The first to sail the Pacific Sea,
And first to smoke tobacco was he.
“And he said at last, ‘Our coast is hilly,
And the northern seas are dark and chilly:
I’m growing old and my veins are cold,
But still my soul is athirst for gold.
Let me go once more to the Spanish Main,
To isles of the sun, and the golden rain,
And rob the galleons old of Spain.’
He went and died ’mid the isles, ah me!
And his white ship scudded across the sea,
The ‘Golden Hinde’ in the western wind,
And never again to his home came he—
But only his gold brought home again.
’Twas fool’s gold all.

IV.

“Old Plymouth stands by the windy sea,
As lovely a city as ever was seen.
And fair are the churches of Plymouth dean,[7]
And tall was the church that stood on the quay.

“Now lonely old Susan lived on the moor,
Away from the tower of Plymouth Green,
Away from the roads of Plymouth dean.
A little old woman and poor was she,
Whose father had died on the stormy sea,
And she went to the church on each Lord’s Day,
Though her cottage was many a mile away—
To the sailor’s church that looked o’er the bay,
The church of the storms and wild sea-mews,
And she was hired to open the pews.
It made the church seem friendly and free,
To open the pews by charity.
The standing committee who seated the people,
And the grim old bell-ringer who lived in the steeple,
And the beadle who kept evil-doers in awe,
And tickled the sleeper’s nose with a straw,
And made lazy old women jump up in their dreams,
And wake all their neighbors with spasms and screams—
They were worthy folks all, but not equal in dues
To the wise little woman who opened the pews.
And the good folks on Sunday each gave her a penny,
And at weddings and Christmases twice as many,
And at Hallowe’en they gave her a guinea.
STOCK-YARDS.

“Now, one autumn morn, as she came to the church,
The sailors, lingering round the porch,
Under the trees strange stories told
Of Sir Francis Drake and his shipload of gold;
And Susan stopped and listened awhile,
Then opened the pews in the long, broad aisle,
Not over-pleased at the wonderful news.
‘’Tis only the gold that does good that is gain,
And I want not the gold of the pilots of Spain,’
Said the wise little woman who opened the pews.

V.

“’Twas in glimmering September—the hour, near noon;
The prayers had been read; the clerk gave out a tune,
And stood up and looked through the window, and then
His eyes oped as though he’d ne’er close them again;
His mouth opened too, and his lips rounded, so,
And left on his face just the round letter O.
Then he winked to the beadle, and winked to the squire,
And their eyes sought the window, and turned from the choir.
The horizon was broken—there were sails in the air;
And the cross of St. George on the breeze floated fair.
Then arose from the quay a tumultuous shout,
And the heads of the singers went bobbing about,
And no one looked upward, but every one out.

VI.

“The children grew restless, the tirewomen bold,
And the beadle cried out, ‘Run, run! I’ve no doubt
’Tis Sir Francis Drake and his shipload of gold!
It will make us all rich, and we’ll have a new bell.’
Then the beadle ran out; and the clerk and the squire
Said, ‘We’ll now put new shingles upon the old spire!’
Ran the sailors and women and tradespeople all;
And the deaconess, who could not her feelings repress,
Said, ‘Run, and it may be I’ll get a new dress.’
Till—oh, ’tis a scandalous story to tell—
Till no one was left save quaint Rector Mews
And the wise little woman who opened the pews;
Only she, and the figures of saints on the wall.
Then the rector said, ‘Susan, we might as well run;
There’s a ship coming in from the isles of the sun.
It bodes good to us all, this remarkable news;
I’ll run, while you shut up the pulpit and pews.
’Tis not every day I am called to behold
A ship from the Indies all loaded with gold!
’Twill make us so rich we’ll all things make new,
And have a new hassock in every pew!’
And he doffed his long robe in a hurry, and he
Ran after the others all down to the quay.

“Susan heard the men shouting on roof-top and shore,
The boom of the cannon, the answering gun.
But she turned from the church to her thatched-cottage door,
And was thankful her riches had made her so poor.

VII.

“Uneventful years passed, and dull was the news;
And the wise little woman still opened the pews.
And Sir Francis again from the port sailed away,
Far off from the hills of the Tavy and Tay;
And at last the good people looked out on the main
For his ship to appear in the distance again;
And the parson still preached on the sins of the Jews.
From the Isles of June came not gold, spice, nor news;
And the wise little woman who opened the pews
Used to say, ‘You must search for gold on your knees,
And look up to Heaven, not over the seas
For gold-laden ships from the bright Caribbees,
The riches that galleons bring over the deep.
’Tis only the gold that does good that is good;
And the gold that we covet and hoard up and keep,
That’s fool’s gold all.’

VIII.

“The St. Martin birds came to the church-tower tall,
And the purple-winged swallows that lived in the wall;
The mavis sang sweet, and the green hedgerows burned,
And the wayside brooks into violets turned;
The lilies tossed in the scented air,
The peach-boughs reddened, and whitened the pear.
Again on a Sunday came wonderful news,
And the little old woman who opened the pews
Again heard the shoutings of joy on the quay,
The cannon and answering gun on the sea.
But half-mast hung the flag on that battleship old.
Half-mast! Who had died ’mid the cabins of gold?
The grand ship rode into the harbor, and still
Grew the wharves and the towers and the oak-shaded hill,
And the news came at last, ’twas Sir Francis had died
’Mid his cabins of gold at the last Christmas-tide.
‘Sir Francis?’ they said. ‘Let the old bell be tolled.’
And the old bell began to toll—toll—toll,
Toll—toll—toll—toll.
We hope there was gold in Sir Francis’s soul.
And the people all turned from the long, windy quay,—
With tears turned away from the May-pleasant sea,
And talked of the brave old sea-lord who had died
’Neath the Southern Cross at Christmas-tide,
And whose form had been sunk in the deep, moving sea
In the festival days of Nativity.

IX.

“When the folks sought the church to talk of the news,
Came the wise little woman who opened the pews,
And she said to the parson, ‘I’m sorry indeed;
’Tis not that kind of gold that our spirits most need,
But the gold of the Word, the heart and the deed.
The Sea Knight has only that true gold to-day
That his honor refused, or his heart gave away.
Let us look no more to the stores of the seas,
To the isles of the sun or the bright Caribbees—
Let us envy no more the rich galleons of Spain,
’Tis only the gold that does good that is gain.
The wealth that avarice seeks to find
Is like the gold of the “Golden Hinde;”
Chink, chink, chink, chink; who it commands
Will stand at last with empty hands—
’Tis fool’s gold all!’”
[6]Permission of “St. Nicholas.”
[7]Dean, as here used, means “a small valley.”