The Mountain and the Squirrel

Had a quarrel,

And the former called the latter “Little Prig.”

Bun replied:

“You are doubtless very big;

But all sorts of things and weather

Must be taken in together,

To make up a year,

And a sphere;

And I think it no disgrace

To occupy my place.

If I’m not so large as you,

You’re not so small as I,

And not half so spry.

I’ll not deny you make

A very pretty squirrel track.

Talents differ; all is well and wisely put:

If I cannot carry forests on my back,

Neither can you crack a nut.”

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)

Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,

And saw, within the moonlight in his room,

Making it rich and like a lily in bloom,

An angel writing in a book of gold;

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,

And to the presence in the room he said,

“What writest thou?” The vision raised its head,

And, with a look made of all sweet accord,

Answered, “The names of those who love the Lord.”

“And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,”

Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,

But cheerly still; and said, “I pray thee, then,

Write me as one who loves his fellow-men.”

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night

It came again, with a great wakening light,

And showed the names whom love of God had blest;

And, lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest.

The splendor falls on castle walls

And snowy summits old in story;

The long light shakes across the lakes,

And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying;

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes—dying, dying, dying!

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,

And thinner, clearer, farther going!

O sweet and far, from cliff and scar,

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!

Blow! let us hear the purple glens replying;

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes—dying, dying, dying!

O love! they die in yon rich sky:

They faint on hill, or field or river;

Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

And grow forever and forever.

Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying;

And answer, echoes, answer—dying, dying, dying.

The little toy dog is covered with dust,

But sturdy and stanch he stands;

And the little toy soldier is red with rust,

And his musket moulds in his hands.

Time was when the little toy dog was new,

And the soldier was passing fair;

And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue

Kissed them and put them there.

“Now, don’t you go till I come,” he said;

“And don’t you make any noise!”

So toddling off to his trundle-bed

He dreamed of the pretty toys;

And as he was dreaming, an angel’s song

Awakened our Little Boy Blue—

Oh, the years are many, the years are long,

But the little toy friends are true.

Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,

Each in the same old place,

Awaiting the touch of a little hand,

The smile of a little face.

And they wonder, as waiting these long years through,

In the dust of that little chair,

What has become of our Little Boy Blue

Since he kissed them and put them there.

All day long they come and go—

Pittypat and Tippytoe;

Footprints up and down the hall;

Playthings scattered on the floor,

Finger marks along the wall,

Tell-tale smudges on the door;—

By these presents you shall know

Pittypat and Tippytoe.

How they riot at their play;

And a dozen times a day

In they troop demanding bread—

Only buttered bread will do,

And that butter must be spread

Inches thick, with sugar, too;

And I never can say “No,

Pittypat and Tippytoe.”

Sometimes there are griefs to soothe,

Sometimes ruffled brows to smooth,

For (I much regret to say)

Tippytoe and Pittypat

Sometimes interrupt their play

With an internecine spat;

Fie, for shame; to quarrel so—

Pittypat and Tippytoe.

Oh, the thousand worrying things

Every day recurrent brings;

Hands to scrub and hair to brush,

Search for playthings gone amiss,

Many a wee complaint to hush,

Many a little bump to kiss;

Life seems one vain fleeting show

To Pittypat and Tippytoe.

And when day is at an end

There are little duds to mend;

Little frocks are strangely torn,

Little shoes great holes reveal,

Little hose but one day worn,

Rudely yawn at toe and heel;

Who but you could work such woe,

Pittypat and Tippytoe?

But when comes this thought to me

“Some there are who childless be,”

Stealing to their little beds,

With a love I cannot speak,

Tenderly I stroke their heads—

Fondly kiss each velvet cheek.

God help those who do not know

A Pittypat and Tippytoe.

On the floor and down the hall,

Rudely smutched upon the wall,

There are proofs of every kind

Of the havoc they have wrought;

And upon my heart you’d find

Just such trade marks, if you sought;

Oh, how glad I am ’tis so,

Pittypat and Tippytoe.

On the wide lawn the snow lay deep,

Ridged o’er with many a drifty heap;

The wind that through the pine trees sung

The naked elm-boughs tossed and swung;

While through the window, frosty-starred,

Against the sunset purple barr’d,

We saw the somber crow flit by,

The hawks gray flock along the sky,

The crested blue-jay flitting swift,

The squirrel poising on the drift,

Erect, alert, his broad gray tail,

Set to the north wind like a sail.

It came to pass, our little lass,

With flattened face against the glass,

And eyes in which the tender dew

Of pity shone, stood gazing through

The narrow space her rosy lips

Had melted from the frost’s eclipse.

“Oh, see!” she cried, “The poor blue-jays!

What is it that the black crow says?

The squirrel lifts his little legs

Because he has no hands, and begs;

He’s asking for nuts, I know;

May I not feed them on the snow?”

Half lost within her boots, her head

Warm-sheltered in her hood of red,

Her plaid skirt close about her drawn,

She floundered down the wintry lawn;

Now struggling through the misty veil

Blown round her by the shrieking gale;

Now sinking in a drift so low

Her scarlet hood could scarcely show

Its dash of color on the snow.

She dropped for bird and beast forlorn

Her little store of nuts and corn,

And thus her timid guests bespoke:

“Come, squirrel, from your hollow oak—

Come, black old crow; come, poor blue-jay,

Before your supper’s blown away!

Don’t be afraid, we all are good!

And I’m mamma’s Red Riding-Hood!”

O Thou whose care is over all,

Who heedest even the sparrow’s fall,

Keep in the little maiden’s breast

The pity, which is now its guest!

Let not her cultured years make less

The childhood charm of tenderness.

But let her feel as well as know,

Nor harder with her polish grow!

Unmoved by sentimental griefThat wails along some printed leaf,

But, prompt with kindly word and deed

To own the claims of all who need,

Let the grown woman’s self make good

The promise of Red Riding-Hood!

Across the lonely beach we flit,

One little sandpiper and I,

And fast I gather, bit by bit,

The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry.

The wild waves reach their hands for it,

The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,

As up and down the beach we flit,

One little sandpiper and I.

I watch him as he skims along,

Uttering his sweet and mournful cry;

He starts not at my fitful song,

Nor flash of fluttering drapery.

He has no thought of any wrong,

He scans me with a fearless eye;Stanch friends are we, well-tried and strong,

The little sandpiper and I.

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night,

When the loosed storm breaks furiously?

My driftwood fire will burn so bright!

To what warm shelter can’st thou fly?

I do not fear for thee, though wroth

The tempest rushes through the sky;

For are we not God’s children, both,

Thou, little sandpiper, and I?

Still sits the school-house by the road,

A ragged beggar sleeping;

Around it still the sumachs grow

And blackberry vines are creeping.

Within, the master’s desk is seen,

Deep-scarred by raps official;

The warping floor, the battered seats,

The jack-knife’s carved initial.

The charcoal frescoes on the wall,

Its door’s worn sill, betraying

The feet that, creeping slow to school,

Went storming out to playing.

Long years ago a winter’s sun

Shone over it at setting;

Lit up its western window-panes,

And low eaves’ icy fretting.

It touched the tangled golden curls,

And brown eyes full of grieving

Of one who still her steps delayed,

When all the school were leaving.

For near her stood the little boy

Her childish favor singled;

His cap pulled low upon his face

Where pride and shame were mingled.

Pushing with restless feet the snow

To right, to left, he lingered—

As restlessly her tiny hands

The blue-checked apron fingered.

He saw her lift her eyes; he felt

The soft hand’s light caressing,

And heard the tremble of her voice,

As if a fault confessing.

“I’m sorry that I spelt the word,

I hate to go above you,

Because”—the brown eyes lower fell—

“Because, you see, I love you.”

Still memory to a gray-haired man

That sweet child-face is showing.

Dear girl! the grasses on her grave

Have forty years been growing.

He lives to learn in life’s hard school

How few who pass above him

Lament their triumph and his loss,

Like her—because they love him.

Little children, you must seek

Rather to be good than wise,

For the thoughts you do not speak

Shine out in your cheeks and eyes.

If you think that you can be

Cross and cruel and look fair,

Let me tell you how to see

You are quite mistaken there.

Go and stand before the glass,

And some ugly thought contrive,

And my word will come to pass

Just as sure as you’re alive!

What you have and what you lack,

All the same as what you wear,

You will see reflected back;

So, my little folks, take care!

And not only in the glass

Will your secrets come to view;

All beholders, as they pass,

Will perceive and know them, too.

Goodness shows in blushes bright,

Or in eyelids dropping down,

Like a violet from the light;

Badness in a sneer or frown.

Out of sight, my boys and girls,

Every root of beauty starts;

So think less about your curls,

More about your minds and hearts.

Cherish what is good, and drive

Evil thoughts and feelings far;

For, as sure as you’re alive,

You will show for what you are.

There! little girl; don’t cry!

They have broken your doll, I know;

And your tea-set blue,

And your play-house, too,

Are things of the long ago;

But childish troubles will soon pass by.

There! little girl; don’t cry!

There! little girl; don’t cry!

They have broken your slate, I know;

And the glad wild ways

Of your school-girl days

Are things of the long ago;

But life and love will soon come by.

There! little girl; don’t cry!

There! little girl; don’t cry!

They have broken your heart, I know;

And the rainbow gleams

Of your youthful dreams

Are things of the long ago;

But heaven holds all for which you sigh.

There! little girl; don’t cry!