"Pretty John Watts,

We are troubled with rats;

Will you drive them out of the house?

There are mice, too, in plenty,"

Who feast in the pantry;

But let them stay,

And nibble away;

What harm in a little brown mouse?"

A curious puzzle haunts

The brain of the commentator,

Whether John Watts, perchance,

Be preacher or legislator.

We 're troubled with rats, we cry:

And who shall drive out the vermin?

Let senate and pulpit try:

Urge edict, and scourge with sermon.

They steal, they riot, they slay:

They are noisy, they are noisome:

Mice in the pantry, you say?

Ah, those little things are toysome!

They only nibble, you see;

They only frolic and scamper:

What harm can it possibly be

A little brown mouse to pamper?

They 're not of the race, John Watts!

From them we need no protection;

They will never develop to rats,

By survival or selection.

And yet, John Watts! John Watts!

Whether in closet or highway,

I doubt me that mice and rats

Are akin, in some sort of sly way;

And as long as the world sins on,

That the odds will be but a quibble

Between the deeds that are done

By brutes that devour—or nibble!

"Little Robin Redbreast sat upon a tree;

Up went the pussy-cat, down came he:

Down came the pussy-cat, away Robin ran;

Says little Robin Redbreast, catch me if you can!

Little Robin Redbreast hopped upon a spade;

Pussy-cat jumped after him, and then he was afraid;

Little Robin chirped and sung, and what did pussy say?

Pussy said, Me-ow! Me-ow! and Robin flew away."

Little Robin Redbreast sat upon a tree,

Heartsome and glad;

The cheer of life, in the green of life, what-

ever so blithe may be?

Fol de roi, de rol, lad!

Up went the pussy-cat, and down came

he,—

Woe befall for the claws, lad!

The care of life, and the fear of life, it

creepeth so stealthily,—

So threatsome and sad!

And woe befall for the claws, lad!

Down came the pussy-cat, away Robin

ran,

In his scarlet clad;

There may be a day for running away, for

redcoated bird or man.

Fol de roi, de rol, lad!

Says little Robin Redbreast, Catch me if

you can!

Two merry legs to the four, lad!

A quick, bold pair, that scampers fair, is

part of the saving plan,

And a match for the pad

Aprowl on the pitiless four, lad!

Little Robin Redbreast hopped upon a

spade;

This is n't so bad!

All of leafy green, and for joy, I ween, the

world was never made.

Fol de roi, de rol, lad!

Pussy-cat jumped after him, and then he

was afraid;

Ah, what's the use of all, lad?

There 's death in our work, there's fear to

lurk in the places where we played.

What help 's to be had?

And what is the use of all, lad?

Little Robin chirped and sung, the same

brave roundelay;

There's room to be glad!

There's always a light behind the night;

there's never a will but a way;

Fol de roi, de rol, lad!

Little Robin chirped and sung, and what did

pussy say?

Creeping, and stretching the claws, lad?

Pussy said, O-w! P-shaw i Me-ow! for

Robin was off and away.

There's wings to be had!

And fol de rol for the claws, lad!

"When I was a bachelor, I lived by myself,

And all the bread and cheese I got I put upon a shelf.

The rats and the mice, they made such a strife,

I was forced to go to London to get me a wife.

The streets were so broad, and the lanes were so nar-

row

I was forced to bring my wife home in a wheelbarrow.

The wheelbarrow broke, and my wife had a fall,

Down came wheelbarrow, wife, and all."

Of course it did. Whatever could you pos-

sibly expect, sir?

You chose a quite peculiar style to cherish

and protect, sir!

Your resource in emergency commands my

admiration,

But I wonder was it want—or excess—of

calculation,

That the wheelbarrow broke?

The one-wheeled way gave out, you say?

Indeed, I should have guessed so,

From the very frank preamble of your pre-

cious manifesto!

When all the bread and cheese you got you

shut up in your closet,

Driving such single-blessed team, what

strange amazement was it

That your wheelbarrow broke?

You were managing quite finely till the rats

and mice got at it,

And forced you to the slow resolve, how-

e'er you might combat it

With other prompting, that a wife must be

your choice of crosses

In a world of moth and rust and thieves,

and all provoking losses?

Yes,—the wheelbarrow broke.

When the scramble and the screed began,

you fain would share your trouble,

But in no other sense, it seems, arrange for

going double;

The generous thoroughfares of life were too

wide for your barrow,

And the single footpath in the lane you

plodded was too narrow

For a couple in a yoke.

The old plan was a careful one; but it could

never carry

New needs; you should have thought of

that before you thought to marry;

And still you strove to push it through,

with many a frown and grumble,

Till the poor little wife and all had got a

dreadful tumble,

When the wheelbarrow broke.

Broke midway in the struggle: a providen-

tial mystery:

The usual meek accounting for of such mis-

handled history:

As if it were the method of the wisdom and

the glory

To run the earth on one wheel,—and each

small earthly story,—

Till the wheelbarrow broke!

Ah, friend! of God's mechanics you mistake

the grand solution;

On no weak, single centre runs the perfect

revolution;

But one circuit round the sun,—one self-

circling for the planet,—

And one divine consent of both,—so first

the power began it,

And creation was bespoke.

Be sure you must in everything waste hope

and love and labor,

Moving cheaply by yourself,—nowise

greatly with your neighbor.

Cease, then, with such ill-balance in the

ways of life to wraxle,

And put an equal-turning wheel on each

end of your axle,

Since your wheelbarrow 's broke!