The Jimmyjohns, and other stories

OH! Jack was the fellow who lived long ago,

And built him a house, as you very well know,

With chimneys so tall, and a cupola too,

And windows set thick, where the light could go through.

And this is the house that Jack built.

Now, Jack he was so tender-hearted and true,

He loved every dear little childling that grew.

“The old folk can do very well without me,

And I’ll be the friend of the children,” quoth he.

So away in his store-room he stored up a heap

Of corn-bags well filled, full seven yards deep;

While ranged very near them, in beautiful show,

Were a great many corn-poppers, set in a row.

And this is the corn that lay in the house that Jack built.

And a blazing red fire was ever kept glowing

By a great pair of bellows that ever kept blowing;

And there stood the children, the dear little souls!

A-shaking their corn-poppers over the coals.

Soon a motherly rat, seeking food for her young,

Came prying and peeping the corn-bags among.

“I’ll take home a supply,” said this kindest of mothers:

“My children like corn quite as well as those others.”

And this is the rat, &c.

Run quick, Mother Rat! Oh, if you but knew

How slyly old Tabby is watching for you!

She’s creeping so softly! pray, pray do not wait!

She springs! she has grabbed you!—ah, now ’tis too late!

And this is the cat, &c.

Too late! yes, too late! All your struggles are vain:

You never will see those dear children again!

All sadly they sit in their desolate home,

Looking out for the mother that never will come.

When Pussy had finished, she said with a smile,

“I think I will walk in the garden a while,

And there take a nap in some sunshiny spot.”

Bose laughed to himself as he said, “I think not!”

Just as Puss shuts her eyelids, oh! what does she hear?

“Bow-wow!” and “Bow-wow!” very close at her ear.

Now away up a pole, all trembling, she springs;

And there on its top, all trembling, she clings.

And this is the dog, &c.

Said Bose to himself, “What a great dog am I!

When my voice is heard, who dares to come nigh?

Now I’ll worry that cow. Ha, ha, ha! Oh, if she

Should run up a pole, how funny ’twould be!”

Poor Bose! You will wish that you’d never been born

When you bark at that cow with the crumpled horn.

’Way you go, with a toss, high up in the air!

Do you like it, old Bose? Is it pleasant up there?

And this is the cow, &c.

Now, when this old Moolly, so famous in story,

Left Bose on the ground, all bereft of his glory,

She walked to the valley as fast as she could,

Where a dear little maid with a milking-pail stood.

And this is the maiden, &c.

Alas! a maiden all forlorn was she,

Woful and sad, and piteous to see.

With weary step she walked, and many a sigh:

Her cheek was pale; a tear bedimmed her eye.

She sat her down with melancholy air

Among the flowers that bloomed so sweetly there,

And thus with clasped hands she made her moan:—

“Ah me!” she said; “ah me! I’m all alone!

In all the world are none who care for me;

In all the world are none I care to see;

No one to me a kindly message brings;

Nobody gives me any pretty things;

Nobody asks me am I sick or well;

Nobody listens when I’ve aught to tell;

Kind words of love I’ve never, never known:

Ah me!” she said, “’tis sad to be alone!”

Now up jumps the man all tattered and torn,

And he says to the maiden, “Don’t sit there forlorn.

Behind this wild rose-bush I’ve heard all you said;

And I’ll love and protect you, you dear little maid!

For oft have I hid there, so bashful and shy,

And peeped through the roses to see you go by:

I know every look of those features so fair;

I know every curl of your bright golden hair.

My garments are in bad condition, no doubt;

But the love that I give you shall never wear out.

Now, I’ll be the husband, if you’ll be the wife;

And together we’ll live without trouble or strife.”

And this is the man, &c.

Thought the maid to herself, “Oh, what beautiful words!

Sweeter than music, or singing of birds.

How pleasant ’twill be thus to live all my life

With this kind little man, without trouble or strife!

If his clothes are all tattered and torn,—why, ’tis plain

What he needs is a wife that can mend them again.

And he brought them to such sorry plight, it may be,

’Mong the thorns of the roses while watching for me!”

And, when this wise maiden looked up in his face,

She saw there a look full of sweetness and grace.

’Twas a truth-telling face. “Yes, I’ll trust you,” said she.

“Ah, a kiss I must take, if you trust me!” quoth he;

“And, since we’re so happily both of a mind,

We’ll set off together the priest for to find.”

Now hand in hand along they pass,

Tripping it lightly over the grass,

By pleasant ways, through fields of flowers,

By shady lanes, through greenwood bowers.

The bright little leaves they dance in the breeze,

And the birds sing merrily up in the trees.

The maiden smiles as they onward go,

Forgotten now her longing and woe;

And the good little man he does care for her so!

He cheers the way with his pleasant talk,

Finds the softest paths where her feet may walk,

Stays her to rest in the sheltered nook,

Guides her carefully over the brook,

Lifts her tenderly over the stile,

Speaking so cheerily all the while!

And plucks the prettiest wild flowers there

To deck the curls of her golden hair.

Says the joyful maid, “Not a flower that grows

Is so fair for me as the sweet wild rose!”

Thus journeying on by greenwood and dell,

They came at last where the priest did dwell,—

A jolly fat priest, as I have heard tell;

A jolly fat priest, all shaven and shorn,

With a long black cassock so jauntily worn.

And this is the priest, &c.

“Good-morrow, Sir Priest! will you marry us two?”

“That I will,” said the priest, “if ye’re both lovers true.

But when, little man, shall your wedding-day be?”

“To-morrow, good priest, if you can agree:

At the sweet hour of sunrise, when the new day

Is rosy and fresh in its morning array,

When flowers are awaking, and birds full of glee,

At the top of the morning, our wedding shall be.

And, since friends we have none, for this wedding of ours

No guests shall there be, save the birds and the flowers;

And we’ll stand out among them, in sight of them all,

Where the pink-and-white blooms of the apple-tree fall.”

“Od zooks!” cried the priest, “what a wedding we’ll see

To-morrow, at sunrising, under the tree!”

Next morning, while sleeping his sweetest sleep,

The priest was aroused from his slumbers deep

By the clarion voice of chanticleer,

Sudden and shrill, from the apple-tree near.

“Wake up, wake up!” it seemed to say;

“Wake up, wake up! there’s a wedding to-day!”

And this is the cock that crowed in the morn,

That waked the priest all shaven and shorn,

That married the man all tattered and torn,

That kissed the maiden all forlorn,

That milked the cow with the crumpled horn,

That tossed the dog, that worried the cat, that caught the rat that ate the corn that lay in the house that Jack built.

THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT.