Original Size — Medium-Size
Down on his knees he. went, if you please,
And oblivious of sunshine, and blossoms, and trees,
Where the waterfall piped in the shrillest of trebles
Hop o’ my Thumb filled his pocket with pebbles.
Then homeward he stole,
Returned through the hole,
And crept into bed, not disturbing a soul;
But feeling the danger completely forestalled.
Curled up, and slept soundly until he was called!
At eight o’ clock the mother rose,
And donning mournfully her clothes,
Lit up some sticks and put the kettle on,
As she and he did last night settle on:—
The water boiling, in goes, souse!
The one last carrot in the house.
The hapless mother can’t but feel
In any case it’s their last meal;
For even if they now gave up
The plan on which they had agreed,
There’s nothing left,—nor bite nor sup,—
Her hungry, starving babes to feed.
Less pain ’t will be, she feels, poor mother,
To lose them one way than another.
And so this poor Hagar
Prepared her soupe maigre,
While grief and perplexity harass and plague her.
And soon as their eyes
Are open, with cries
Of “Oh, we ’re so hungry!” the little ones rise.
While the father, who’s not
Very great at a plot,
Conceives that his plan some more treachery lacks;
So in order to hatch it, goes out with his axe,
And makes an attempt at restoring his mind’s tone
By setting the edge of the blade to the grindstone.
The poor little souls
Sit down to their bowls,
And eat up their pottage without any rolls.
It’s not a remarkably nourishing diet,
But it eases the pangs
Of hunger’s sharp fangs,
And the wolf in the stomach keeps partially quiet.
But the mother’s afraid
It’s far from well made,
For the carrot’s fine flavour and strength haven’t stopt in it, And it’s rather too salt—from the tears that have dropt in it.
However, no matter!
They clear out each platter:
In expecting a share of the soup, dog and cat err;
If they want a first course they must e’en lick the dish for it, And as for the second, they ’ll have to go fish for it-
A third they ’ll not meet with, however they wish for it.
So the table was cleared;
The cloth disappeared:
And then came what Hop o’ my Thumb had so feared.
Said the father, “Come, children, I’m off to the wood,
And I ’ll take you all with me providing you ‘re good.
There are lots of wild fruits,
Not to mention the roots,
And the hawthorns are putting forth midsummer shoots.
You ’ll have plenty to eat-
’T will be really a treat;-
So run to your mother, and all be made neat!”
Off they ran in great glee
To their mother, and she
Did the best that she could for the boys; but, you see,
A respectable look’s not the easiest of matters
To give to clothes made of shreds, patches, and tatters.
However, at last, inspected and passed,
They set out for the forest so gloomy and vast.
The father goes first with his axe on his shoulder,
The next place was the mother’s,
And then all the others;
First he of the brothers
Who is than the rest of the family older,
And so from the tallest
Right down to the smallest,
On a scale that would greatly amuse a beholder.
And, pray, who last of all should come
But the mite of the family, Hop o’ my Thumb r
Trudging along,
Humming a song,
As if he were quite unsuspecting of wrong,
But keeping an eye
Very much on the sly
On the various objects the road took them by,
And here and there along the track
Dropping a pebble to guide him back.