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On they went still, mounting a hill
In the sort of locality papers call “ill”-
That retired kind of spot
You would look on as not
An unsuitable place for the scene of a murther-
Up the steep gloomy slope
They stumble and grope;
They’d come to a fir wood, but still they went further.
At last the old woodcutter cried out a halt,
Set the children to play,
And then stole away
With his wife when he fancied they’d all be at fault.
And so they were rather
When, weary of playing
And running and straying,
They hunted in vain for their mother and father.
Oh, where could they be?
In bush, thicket, and tree
They searched, but their parents they nowhere could see.
And some of them cried,
“Oh, where do you hide?”
As young Lovell remarked to his beautiful bride,
Who got in “the wrong box,” while the key was outside,
And suffered such pains in the chest that she died.
They ran to and fro,
And searched high and low,
And exerted themselves till near ready to drop,
Whereupon little Hop my Thumb, who till then held his tongue, called out “Stop This was done to deceive us:
They meant thus leave us;
But I, if you ’ll just let me manage the job, ’ll
Soon help you all out of this queer-looking hobble.”
That night the sad sire
Sat down by the fire,
And the mother sat near him in agony dire,
And, though they’d not dined,
Felt far from inclined
To eat of the loaf they’d the good luck to find
Where some gay picnic party had left it behind,
Just as they-
Well-a-day!
(As the madrigals say)-
Had left their poor children behind in dismay.
“Rat-tat-tat!”
“What is that?”
Said the sire as he sat
On the desolate hearth ’twixt the dog and the cat.
“A knock at the door.”
And without any more
Ado, it was opened—and, lo! on the floor
Stood those desolate ones,
His seven little sons,
With Hop o’ my Thumb walking coolly before!
There was nought to be said:
They put them to bed;-
You can’t solve a riddle by scratching your head,
Or that father distrest
Would have certainly guessed
All the “Family Herald’s” most puzzling and best.
But he said to his wife, “Though it’s much to our sorrow,
We ’ll lose the young rascals once more, dear, to-morrow.
But for fear that again of our scheme nought should come,
Just keep a sharp eye on that Hop o’ my Thumb.”
The very next day
He led them away,
In a different part of the forest to stray-
Where the foliage was thicker, and darker, and denser,
And—if I’m permitted the term—much immenser!
Any chance, to provide
From the rivulet’s side
Any pebbles, to Hop o’ my Thumb was denied;
But the youngster was one
Not easily done-
Said he, “I ’ll contrive it, as sure as a gun!”
So into his pocket, unnoticed, the crust
He had given him for breakfast he quietly thrust,
And when onward they strode
By this different road,
He dropt crumbs all along, that had certainly showed
Very well the way back, as had been his intention,
But for one little fact I am going to mention:-
That the thrush and the blackbird, the woodlark and linnet
Discovered this strewing of bread in a minute,
And alighting at once, ate up all of the crumbs,
And ruined this plan of poor Hop o’ my Thumb’s!
Now the boys didn’t mind
If they were left behind,
Thinking Hop o’ my Thumb would the road for them find.
But, alas! when they thought
It was late, and they ought
To get home, and he failed to find out what he sought,
A pretty to-do
And a frightened “bohoo!”
Was set up all at once by the terrified crew.
T was useless to search;
They were left in the lurch,
They were lost in the forest as safe as the church.
What a terrible plight!
It was getting t’wards night,
And although there might not be (so whispered their fright)
Wild beasts in the forest about,—yet there might!
The sun adown the western sky in dying glory rolled,
And turned the forest’s topmost leaves to fluttering flecks of gold;
The twilight shadows deepened round
And filled the violet sky,
Till, springing out of depths profound,
The stars were in the sky.
A purple pall
Fell over all;
The last ray faded soon.
And, like a galley far and small
Appeared the thread of moon.
All noises died
Save winds that sighed
Among the sombre trees.
And nightingale’s sad song, allied
In melody to these!
Huddling shoulder to shoulder,
And not growing bolder.
As the breezes moaned louder, the moon shone out colder,
Those poor little brothers in terrors the sorest,
Went wandering on through the gloom of the forest.
Free from dismay,
Gallant and gay,
Hop o’ my Thumb, marching first, led the way;
But they hadn’t got the same spirit—not they!
At last he espies
A trunk of huge size;
Said he, “In the world this will give me a rise-
I can see by ascending it how the land lies.”
So without wasting time
He hastes to the climb. '
His own elbows and knees,
With some limbs of the trees,
Assisting him up to the top by degrees,
He contrives on a bough very lofty to sit him,
And views all the darkness of night will permit him,
While his brothers conjure him to tell what he sees.