"Go!" cried the mayor, "and get long poles!
Poke out the nests, and block up the holes!
Consult with carpenters and builders,
And leave in town not even a trace
Of the rats!" when suddenly up the face
Of the piper perked in the market-place,
With a "First, if you please, my thousand guilders."
A thousand guilders! The mayor looked blue;
So did the corporation too.
To pay this sum to a wandering fellow
With a gipsy coat of red and yellow!
Besides," quoth the mayor, with a knowing wink, "Our business was done at the river's brink;
We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,
And what's dead can't come to life, I think;
So friend, we're not the folks to shrink
From the duty of giving you something to drink,
And a matter of money to put in your poke;
But as for the guilders, what we spoke
Of them, as you very well know, was in jokę.
Besides, our losses have made us thrifty;
A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!"
The piper's face fell, and he cried
"No trifling! I can't wait, beside
I've promised to visit by dinner-time
Bagdat, and accept the prime
Of the head-cook's pottage, all he's rich in,
For having left in the Caliph's kitchen
Of a nest of scorpions no survivor—
With him I proved no bargain-driver;
With you don't think I'll bate a stiver!
And folks who put me in a passion,
May find me pipe to another fashion."
"How!" cried the mayor, "d'ye think I'll brook
Being treated worse than a cook?
Insulted by a lazy ribald,
With idle pipe and vesture piebald?
You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst;
Blow your pipe there, till you burst!"
Once more he stepped into the street,
And to his lips again
Laid his long pipe of smooth, straight cane;
And ere he blew three notes, (such sweet,
Soft notes as yet musician's cunning
Never gave the enraptured air,)
There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling
Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling;
Small feet were pattering-wooden shoes clattering,
Little hands clapping,-and little tongues clattering,
And like fowls in a farm-yard, when barley is scattering,
Out came the children running,
All the little boys and girls,
With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,
And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,
Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after
The wonderful music, with shouting and laughter.
The mayor was dumb, and the council stood
As if they were changed into blocks of wood,—
Unable to move a step, or cry
To the children merrily skipping by,—
And could only follow with the eye
That joyous crowd at the piper's back.
But how the mayor was on the rack,
And the wretched council's bosoms beat,
As the piper turned from the High Street
To where the Weser rolled its waters,
Right in the way of their sons and daughters!
However, he turned from South to West,
And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,
And after him the children pressed;
Great was the joy in every breast.
"He never can cross that mighty top!
He's forced to let the piping drop,
And we shall see our children stop!"
When, lo, as they reached the mountain's side,
A wondrous portal opened wide,
As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;
And the piper advanced and the children followed;
And when all were in to the very last,
The door in the mountain side shut fast.
Robert Browning, abridged.
BLESS'D COW! thy praise shall still my notes employ,
Great source of health, the only source of joy;
Mother of Egypt's god-but sure, for me,
Were I to leave my God, I'd worship thee.
How oft thy teats these pious hands have press'd
How oft thy bounties proved my only feast!
How oft I've fed thee with my favorite grain!
And roar'd, like thee, to find thy children slain !
Ye swains who know her various worth to prize,
Ah! house her well from winter's angry skies!
Potatoes, pumpkins should her sadness cheer,
Corn from your crib, and mashes from your beer;
When spring returns, she'll well acquit the loan,
And nurse at once your infants and her own.
Milk, then, with pudding, I would always choose;
To this in future I confine my muse,
Till she in haste some further hints unfold,
Well for the young, nor useless to the old.
First in your bowl the milk abundant take,
Then drop with care along the silver lake
Your flakes of pudding; these at first will hide
Their little bulk beneath the swelling tide;
But when their growing mass no more can sink,
When the soft island looms above the brink,
Then check your hand; you've got the portion due;
So taught our sires, and what they taught is true.
There is a choice in spoons. Though small appear
The nice distinction, yet to me 'tis clear,
The deep-bowl'd Gallic spoon, contrived to scoop
In ample draughts the thin diluted soup,
Performs not well in those substantial things,
Whose mass adhesive to the metal clings;
Where the strong labial muscles must embrace
The gentle curve, and sweep the hollow space.
With ease to enter and discharge the freight,
A bowl less concave, but still more dilate,
Becomes the pudding best. The shape, the size,
A secret rests, unknown to vulgar eyes.
Experienced feeders can alone impart
A rule so much above the lore of art.
These tuneful lips, that thousand spoons have tried, With just precision could the point decide,
Though not in song; the muse but poorly shines
In cones and cubes, and geometric lines;
Yet the true form, as near as she can tell,
Is that small section of a goose-egg shell,
Which in two equal portions shall divide
The distance from the centre to the side.
Fear not to slaver; 'tis no deadly sin;
Like the free Frenchman, from your joyous chin
Suspend your ready napkin; or, like me,
Poise with one hand your bowl upon your knee;
Just in the zenith your wise head project;
Your full spoon rising in a line direct,
Bold as a bucket, heed no drops that fall-
The wide-mouthed bowl will surely catch them all!
THE NIGHT AFTER CHRISTMAS.
'Twas the night after Christmas-when, all through the house,
Every soul was abed, and as still as a mouse;
Those stockings, so lately St. Nicholas' care,
Were emptied of all that was eatable there.
The darlings had duly been tucked in their beds,
With very full stomachs, and pain in their heads;
I was dozing away in my new cotton cap,
And Nancy was rather far gone in a nap,
When out in the nurs'ry arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my sleep, crying, "What is the matter ?"
I rushed to each bed-side, still half in a doze,
Tore open the curtains, and threw down the clothes,
While the light of the taper served clearly to show
The piteous plight of those objects below.
For what to the fond father's eyes should appear,
But the little pale face of each sick little dear.
Each pet, having crammed itself full as a tick,
I knew in a moment now felt like "Old Nick."
Their pulses were rapid, their breathings the same,
What their stomachs rejected I'll mention by name:
Now turkey, now stuffing, plum pudding, of course,
Now custards, now comfits, now cranberry-sauce:
Before outraged nature each went to the wall.
Aye! lollypops, flapdoddle-great things and small,
As from throes epigastric, indigestibles fly,
So figs, nuts and raisins, jam, jelly and pie:
All the horrors of surfeit thus brought to my view,
To the shame of mamma, and of Santa Claus too.
I turned from the sight: to my bed-room stepped back,
And brought out a vial marked "Pulv. Ipecac,'
When my Nancy exclaimed, (for their sufferings shocked her,)
"Don't you think you had better, love, run for the doctor ?"
I ran—and was scarcely back under the roof,
When I heard the sharp clatter of old Jalap's hoof;
I might say, I had hardly had time to turn 'round,
When the doctor came into the room with a bound.
He was spattered with mud from his head to his boots,
And the clothes he had on seemed the drollest of suits;
In his haste he'd put all quite awry on his back,
And he looked like John Falstaff, half fuddled with sack.
His eyes, how they twinkled! Had the doctor got merry
His cheeks looked like port, and his breath smelt of sherry;
He hadn't been shaved-so to baffle the breeze,
The beard on his chin served as "cheveux de frise,;"
But inspecting their tongues in despite of their teeth,
And drawing his watch from his waistcoat beneath,
He felt of each pulse, saying, "Each little belly
Must get rid of the rest of that pie-crust and jelly."
I gazed on each chubby, plump, sick little elf,
And groaned when he said it, in spite of myself:
But a wink of his eye, as he physicked dear Fred,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He didn't prescribe-but went straightway to work
And dosed all the rest,-gave his trowsers a jerk,
And adding directions, while blowing his nose,
He buttoned his coat-from his chair he arose,
Then jumped in his gig-gave old Jalap a whistle,
And Jalap dashed off as if pricked by a thistle:
But the doctor exclaimed, ere he drove out of sight,
"More cases just like them! Good-night! Jones, good-
night !"
As vonce I valked by a dismal swamp,
There sot an Old Cove in the dark and damp,
And at everybody as passed that road
A stick or a stone this Old Cove throwed;
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