The Home Book of Verse
Chapter 43 : "I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high; Will you rest upo

"I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high; Will you rest upon my little bed?" said the Spider to the Fly.

"There are pretty curtains drawn around, the sheets are fine and thin; And if you like to rest a while, I'll snugly tuck you in!"

"Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "for I've often heard it said, They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!"

Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, "Dear friend, what can I do To prove the warm affection I've always felt for you?

I have, within my pantry, good store of all that's nice; I'm sure you're very welcome--will you please to take a slice?"

"Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "kind sir, that cannot be, I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!"

"Sweet creature," said the Spider, "you're witty and you're wise; How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!

I have a little looking-gla.s.s upon my parlor shelf; If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself."

"I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "for what you're pleased to say, And bidding you good morning now, I'll call another day."

The Spider turned him round about, and went into his den, For well he knew the silly Fly would soon be back again; So he wove a subtle web in a little corner sly, And set his table ready to dine upon the Fly.

Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing,-- "Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing; Your robes are green and purple, there's a crest upon your head; Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead."

Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly, Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by: With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew,-- Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue; Thinking only of her crested head--poor foolish thing! At last, Up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her fast.

He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den Within his little parlor--but she ne'er came out again!

And now, dear little children, who may this story read, To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne'er give heed; Unto an evil counsellor close heart, and ear, and eye, And take a lesson from this tale of the Spider and the Fly.

Mary Howitt [1799-1888]

THE CAPTAIN'S DAUGHTER

We were crowded in the cabin, Not a soul would dare to sleep,-- It was midnight on the waters, And a storm was on the deep.

'Tis a fearful thing in winter To be shattered by the blast, And to hear the rattling trumpet Thunder, "Cut away the mast!"

So we shuddered there in silence,-- For the stoutest held his breath, While the hungry sea was roaring And the breakers talked with death.

As thus we sat in darkness, Each one busy with his prayers, "We are lost!" the captain shouted, As he staggered down the stairs.

But his little daughter whispered, As she took his icy hand, "Isn't G.o.d upon the ocean, Just the same as on the land?"

Then we kissed the little maiden, And we spake in better cheer, And we anch.o.r.ed safe in harbor When the morn was s.h.i.+ning clear.

James Thomas Fields [1816-1881]

THE NIGHTINGALE AND GLOW-WORM

A nightingale, that all day long Had cheered the village with his song, Nor yet at eve his note suspended, Nor yet when eventide was ended, Began to feel, as well he might, The keen demands of appet.i.te; When, looking eagerly around, He spied far off, upon the ground, A something s.h.i.+ning in the dark, And knew the glow-worm by his spark; So, stooping down from hawthorn top, He thought to put him in his crop.

The worm, aware of his intent, Harangued him thus, right eloquent: "Did you admire my lamp," quoth he, "As much as I your minstrelsy, You would abhor to do me wrong, As much as I to spoil your song; For 'twas the self-same Power Divine Taught you to sing, and me to s.h.i.+ne; That you with music, I with light, Might beautify and cheer the night."

The songster heard his short oration, And warbling out his approbation, Released him, as my story tells, And found a supper somewhere else.

Hence jarring sectaries may learn Their real interest to discern; That brother should not war with brother, And worry and devour each other; But sing and s.h.i.+ne by sweet consent, Till life's poor transient night is spent, Respecting in each other's case The gifts of nature and of grace.

Those Christians best deserve the name Who studiously make peace their aim; Peace both the duty and the prize Of him that creeps and him that flies.

William Cowper [1731-1808]

SIR LARK AND KING SUN: A PARABLE From "Adela Cathcart"

"Good morrow, my lord!" in the sky alone, Sang the lark, as the sun ascended his throne.

"s.h.i.+ne on me, my lord; I only am come, Of all your servants, to welcome you home.

I have flown right up, a whole hour, I swear, To catch the first s.h.i.+ne of your golden hair."

"Must I thank you, then," said the king, "Sir Lark, For flying so high and hating the dark?

You ask a full cup for half a thirst: Half was love of me, and half love to be first.

There's many a bird makes no such haste, But waits till I come: that's as much to my taste."

And King Sun hid his head in a turban of cloud, And Sir Lark stopped singing, quite vexed and cowed; But he flew up higher, and thought, "Anon The wrath of the king will be over and gone; And his crown, s.h.i.+ning out of its cloudy fold, Will change my brown feathers to a glory of gold."

So he flew--with the strength of a lark he flew; But, as he rose, the cloud rose too; And not one gleam of the golden hair Came through the depths of the misty air; Till, weary with flying, with sighing sore, The strong sun-seeker could do no more.

His wings had had no chrism of gold: And his feathers felt withered and worn and old; He faltered, and sank, and dropped like a stone.

And there on her nest, where he left her, alone Sat his little wife on her little eggs, Keeping them warm with wings and legs.

Did I say alone? Ah, no such thing!

Full in her face was s.h.i.+ning the king.

"Welcome, Sir Lark! You look tired," said he; "Up is not always the best way to me.

While you have been singing so high and away, I've been s.h.i.+ning to your little wife all day."

He had set his crown all about the nest, And out of the midst shone her little brown breast; And so glorious was she in russet gold, That for wonder and awe Sir Lark grew cold.

He popped his head under her wing, and lay As still as a stone, till King Sun was away.

George Macdonald [1824-1905]

THE COURTs.h.i.+P, MERRY MARRIAGE, AND PICNIC DINNER OF c.o.c.k ROBIN AND JENNY WREN

It was a merry time When Jenny Wren was young, So neatly as she danced, And so sweetly as she sung, Robin Redbreast lost his heart: He was a gallant bird; He doffed his hat to Jenny, And thus to her he said:--

"My dearest Jenny Wren, If you will but be mine, You shall dine on cherry pie, And drink nice currant wine.

I'll dress you like a Goldfinch, Or like a Peac.o.c.k gay; So if you'll have me, Jenny, Let us appoint the day."

Jenny blushed behind her fan, And thus declared her mind: "Then let it be to-morrow, Bob, I take your offer kind-- Cherry pie is very good!

So is currant wine!

But I will wear my brown gown, And never dress too fine."

Robin rose up early At the break of day; He flew to Jenny Wren's house, To sing a roundelay.

He met the c.o.c.k and Hen, And bid the c.o.c.k declare, This was his wedding-day With Jenny Wren, the fair.

The c.o.c.k then blew his horn, To let the neighbors know, This was Robin's wedding-day, And they might see the show.

And first came Parson Rook, With his spectacles and band, And one of Mother Hubbard's books He held within his hand.