  THE Brownies once approached in glee A slumbering city by the sea. "In yonder town," the leader cried, "I hear the artist does reside Who pictures out, with patient hand, The doings of the Brownie band." "I'd freely give," another said, "The cap that now protects my head, To find the room, where, day by day, He shows us at our work or play." A third replied: "Your cap retain To shield your poll from snow or rain. His studio is farther down, Within a corner-building brown. So follow me a mile or more And soon we'll reach the office door." Then through the park, around the square, And down the broadest thoroughfare, The anxious Brownies quickly passed, And reached the building huge at last. They paused awhile to view the sight, To speak about its age and height, And read the signs, so long and wide, That met the gaze on every side. But little time was wasted there, For soon their feet had found the stair. And next the room, where oft are told Their funny actions, free and bold, Was honored by a friendly call From all the Brownies, great and small. Then what a gallery they found, As here and there they moved around— For now they gaze upon a scene That showed them sporting on the green; Then, hastening o'er the fields with speed To help some farmer in his need. Said one, "Upon this desk, no doubt, Where now we cluster round about, Our doings have been plainly told From month to month, through heat and cold. And there's the ink, I apprehend, On which our very lives depend. Be careful, moving to and fro, Lest we upset it as we go. For who can tell what tales untold That darksome liquid may unfold!" A telephone gave great delight To those who tried it half the night, Some asking after fresh supplies; Or if their stocks were on the rise; What ship was safe; what bank was firm; Or who desired a second term. Thus messages ran to and fro With "Who are you?" "Hallo!" "Hallo!" And all the repetitions known To those who use the telephone. "Oh, here's the pen, as I opine," Said one, "that's written every line; Indebted to this pen are we For all our fame and history." "See here," another said, "I've found The pointed pencil, long and round, That pictures all our looks so wise, Our smiles so broad and staring eyes; 'Tis well it draws us all aright, Or we might bear it off to-night. But glad are we to have our name In every region known to fame, To know that children lisp our praise, And on our faces love to gaze." Old pistols that brave service knew At Bunker Hill, were brought to view In mimic duels on the floor, And snapped at paces three or four; While from the foils the Brownies plied, The sparks in showers scattered wide, As thrust and parry, cut and guard, In swift succession followed hard. The British and Mongolian slash Were tried in turn with brilliant dash, Till foils, and skill, and temper too, Were amply tested through and through. They found old shields that bore the dint Of spears and arrow-heads of flint, And held them up in proper pose; Then rained upon them Spartan blows. Lay figures, draped in ancient styles, From some drew graceful bows and smiles, Until the laugh of comrades nigh Led them to look with sharper eye. A portrait now they criticize, Which every one could recognize: The features, garments, and the style, Soon brought to every face a smile. Some tried a hand at painting there, And showed their skill was something rare; While others talked and rummaged through The desk to find the stories new, That told about some late affair, Of which the world was not aware. But pleasure seemed to have the power To hasten every passing hour, And bring too soon the morning chime, However well they note the time. Now, from a chapel's brazen bell, The startling hint of morning fell, And Brownies realized the need Of leaving for their haunts with speed. So down the staircase to the street They made their way with nimble feet, And ere the sun could show his face, The band had reached a hiding-place. |
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