YOU want a story, another story,
One you have never heard before?
Stories don't come when you call them, always;
I do not know any more.
"Jack and the Bean-Stalk," "Goldilocks,"
"Bright Prince Charming," "Reynard the Fox,"
And now you ask for a "spandy-new" one,
About your Jack-In-The-Box!
Poor little Jack-In-The-Box, who never
Can open his door himself;
Whose house is so small that it almost pinches,
With neither cupboard nor shelf.
Dark, beside, with a varnishy smell,
Enough to keep him from feeling well,
And a crick in his back that must surely hurt him,
If he could only tell!
Now, let's pretend; when he first was finished,
This rosy-cheeked little Jack,
He stood up straight, with his hands beside him,
And never a crick in his back.
Oh, what a beautiful world of toys!
Little doll-girls and little doll-boys;
Drums and trumpets, and everything lovely
For making a splendid noise!
Ah, but wait—he is not quite finished;
Poor little rosy Jack!
A knife, some glue, some muslin, some paper—
Now there's a crick in his back!
Oh, but the hot glue made him smart;
How near the sharp knife went to his heart;
And for five dreadful, dreadful minutes,
His head and feet were apart!
Now for the box—it is very pretty,
Painted a charming red.
In he goes, his feet are fastened;
Down comes the lid on his head!
Oh, he knew he was going to smother!
He'd have called mamma if he'd owned a mother,
But he'd nobody nearer than distant cousins,
Neither sister nor brother.
Frantic his struggles for fifteen minutes,
But it seemed, the more he tried,
The tighter his house grew; then his courage
Failed; and he cried and cried.
Then he heard laughter, soft and low;
His door flew up, and he heard an "Oh!"
And a dear little face was bent above him—
Your little face, you know.
Over and over the darkness caught him,
The lid came down on him tight;
But he soon found out that after the darkness
Always would come the light.
He was a hero! Up he went
Whenever the lid rose; not content
With merely rising, he came up smiling,
Though all of his strength was spent.
That was the story. Grave and silent
Sat my small Goldilocks,
Looking down with a tender pity,
At brave Jack-In-The-Box.
"Thank you, auntie," was all she said.
But I found that night, when she'd gone to bed,
Jack's box in the grate, and Jack on her pillow,
Close to the golden head.
M. Vandergrift, in Youth's Companion.