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What did he hear?-
He regarded with fear
Being left in the forest so dismal and drear!
And all for no good,
For ’twas likely he should
Get wholly mislaid, like the Babes in the Wood,
Whom (see story) with leaves the kind robin, alack! buries, When they eat, by mistake, deadly nightshade for blackberries!
In a state of despair,
Hidden under the chair,
Poor Hop o’ my Thumb heard his parents declare
That the first thing next day they would make the excursion
Which, so they determined, should end in desertion.
“What’s to be done?
This is really no fun:
I ‘m the wretchedest mortal that’s under the sun.
To bed I must creep—
But awake I will keep,
For what I’ve to do is to think, not to-sleep,”
Said Hop o’ my Thumb,
When his father said, “Mum!”-
To his mother, intending that she should be dumb
On the subject that late
Had formed their debate-
“I think you had better get breakfast at eight.”
The boy stole to bed,
To turn o’er in his head
The things which his father and mother had said,
And discover, if possible, ’cute little chap!
As well as he can,
Some snug little plan
To guard him and brothers against a mishap.
One thing was clear:
When they started from here
He some landmarks must leave by which homeward to steer;
For if he’d the means to discover the track again,
Go where they would, he could find his way back again!
But in vain to devise
Some guide-post he tries,
Till he’s quite wearied out, and sleep closes his eyes.
But while he still sleeps,
On a moonbeam down sweeps
A fairy: beneath his closed eyelids she peeps,
And finding him busy on all sorts of schemes,
To aid his escape
From the morrow’s sad scrape,
She a cunning suggestion slips into his dreams.
Where lofty oaks deep shadows make,
And ceaselessly the aspens quake,
Where ancient elms their branches spread,
And ashes whisper overhead;
Within the forest’s darkest glades
There flows a stream among the shades,
Above its wave a hoary group
Of melancholy willows droop.
The kingfisher its waters loves;
’T is haunted by the startled doves;
And, free of fear, beside its brink
The dappled fawn oft stops to drink.
’T is fed by twenty tinkling rills,
And here and there—where sunlight spills
Through openings in the boughs o’erhead
A halo, yellow, azure, red-
A tiny rainbow bright and small
Hangs o’er the mimic waterfall;
Where through the overarching green
Bright glimpses of the sky are seen,
The dancing waters as they go
Mirror the snatch of blue below.
Long mosses wave within its stream,
And silvery fishes glance and gleam,
And water-lilies float and sail.
But these do not concern my tale.
My point, the mystery to unravel,
Is, that the bed of it is gravel,
And that its bays and banks abound
In pebbles small, and smooth, and round.
By the side of this stream,
As he walked in his dream,
It appeared that the pebbles all set up a scream,
“Hop o’ my Thumb!
Come hither, boy, come;
If we cannot show you the way it is rum!” *
At the first streak of day
He is up and away!
He creeps out of the house through a crack in the
* At the slang the stones speak don’t, I pray, be offended:
How their schooling’s neglected
Must be recollected—
Just remember how often roads have to be mended!
Off like a rocket
To fill every pocket
With stones—precious stones, though not fit for a locket
Brooch, bracelet, or ring,
Or any such thing-
But precious to him for the help they will bring.
Away must he go
Like arrow from bow,
Yet all in a quiver,
And reaches the river.
The scene is a taking one, though this is a giver
Of peaceful delight,
Full of charm for the sight
That reads all the beauty of Nature aright.
On the bank of the stream
Rests one fleeting gleam,
Where the bluebells and dainty anemones teem,
And there rises o’er them
The grey hollow stem
Of an old pollard willow; while many a gem
From the waters is hung
Leaf and blossom among,
For ’t is here that the stream’s sweetest madrigal’s sung.
But what does he care for song, bluebell, or pollard?—
There are the jockeys that have to be collared.