A Lobster's black, when boiled he's red;
The harmless Lamb must bleed;

The Codfish has a clumsy head,

The Goose on grass will feed.

The lady in her gown of silk

The little Worm may thank;
The rich man drinks the Ass's milk;
The Weasel's long and lank.
The Buck gives us a venison dish,
When hunted for the spoil;
The Shark eats up the little fish;
The Whale produces oil.

The Glow-worm shines the darkest night,
With lantern in his tail;
The Turtle is the cit's delight-

It wears a coat of mail.

In Germany they hunt the Boar,
The Bee brings honey home;
The Ant lays up a winter store;
The Bear loves honey-comb.

The Eagle has a crooked beak,

The Plaice has orange spots;

The Starling, if he's taught, will speak;
The Ostrich walks and trots.

The child that does not know these things
May yet be called a dunce;

But I will up in knowledge grow,

As youth can come but once.

Adelaide O'Keeffe [1776-1855?]

THE TIGER

TIGER! Tiger! burning bright,
In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

Answer to a Child's Question

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?

In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?

Did He who made the Lamb, make thee?

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright,

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

133

William Blake (1757-1827]

ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION

Do you ask what the birds say? The Sparrow, the Dove,
The Linnet and Thrush say, “I love and I love!"
In the winter they're silent—the wind is so strong;
What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song.
But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather,
And singing, and loving-all come back together.
But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love,
The green fields below him, the blue sky above,
That he sings, and he sings, and for ever sings he
"I love my Love, and my Love loves me!"

Samuel Taylor Coleridge [1772-1834]

THE RED BREAST OF THE ROBIN

AN IRISH LEGEND

Or all the merry little birds that live up in the tree,
And carol from the sycamore and chestnut,
The prettiest little gentleman that dearest is to me
Is the one in coat of brown and scarlet waist-coat.
It's cockit little Robin,

And his head he keeps a-bobbin'!

Of all the other pretty fowls I'd choose him;
For he sings so sweetly still

Through his tiny slender bill,

With a little patch of red upon his bosom.

When the frost is in the air and the snow upon the ground,
To other little birdies so bewilderin',

Picking up the crumbs near the window he is found,
Singing Christmas stories to the children:

Of how two tender babes

Were left in woodland glades

By a cruel man who took 'em there to lose 'em,
But Bobby saw the crime,

(He was watching all the time,)

And he blushed a perfect crimson on his bosom.

When the changing leaves of Autumn around us thickly fall,

And everything seems sorrowful and saddening,
Robin may be heard on the corner of a wall

Singing what is solacing and gladdening.
And sure, from what I've heard,

He's God's own little bird,

And sings to those in grief just to amuse 'em,
But once he sat forlorn

On a cruel crown of thorn,

And the blood it stained his pretty little bosom.

Unknown

A Legend of the Northland 135

A LEGEND OF THE NORTHLAND

AWAY, away in the Northland,

Where the hours of the day are few, And the nights are so long in winter That they cannot sleep them through;

Where they harness the swift reindeer
To the sledges, when it snows;
And the children look like bear's cubs
In their funny, furry clothes:

They tell them a curious story—
I don't believe 'tis true;
And yet you may learn a lesson
If I tell the tale to you.

Once, when the good Saint Peter
Lived in the world below,
And walked about it, preaching,
Just as he did, you know,

He came to the door of a cottage,
In traveling round the earth,

Where a little woman was making cakes,
And baking them on the hearth;

And being faint with fasting,

For the day was almost done,

He asked her, from her store of cakes,
To give him a single one.

So she made a very little cake,

But as it baking lay,

She looked at it, and thought it seemed

Too large to give away.

Therefore she kneaded another,

And still a smaller one;

But it looked, when she turned it over,

As large as the first had done.

Then she took a tiny scrap of dough,
And rolled and rolled it flat;

And baked it thin as a wafer-
But she couldn't part with that.

For she said, "My cakes that seem too small
When I eat of them myself,

Are yet too large to give away."
So she put them on the shelf.

Then good Saint Peter grew angry,
For he was hungry and faint;
And surely such a woman

Was enough to provoke a saint.

And he said, "You are far too selfish
To dwell in a human form,
To have both food and shelter,
And fire to keep you warm.

"Now, you shall build as the birds do,
And shall get your scanty food
By boring, and boring, and boring,
All day in the hard, dry wood."

Then up she went through the chimney,
Never speaking a word,

And out of the top flew a woodpecker,
For she was changed to a bird.

She had a scarlet cap on her head,

And that was left the same,

But all the rest of her clothes were burned

Black as a coal in the flame.

And every country school-boy

Has seen her in the wood,

Where she lives in the trees till this very day,

Boring and boring for food.

And this is the lesson she teaches:

Live not for yourself alone,

Lest the needs you will not pity

Shall one day be your own.