Chapter I: Part 1

FAIRY REALM

A Collection Of The Favourite Old Tales.

By Tom Hood

Illustrated By The Pencil Of Gustave Dore,

Told In Verse

London :

Ward, Lock, And Tyler, 158 Fleet Street,

1865

PREFACE.

THE five favourite fairy legends which M. Gustave Doré has illustrated are so well known, have been so often told, and in so many different ways, that it was a matter of no small difficulty to determine the best mode of treating them. The plan I have adopted is to give the tales in a simple metre and in the most unpretending manner, going, in short, little if anything beyond mere recital in easy verse. From performing even this plain task as I could have wished I have been prevented by ill health, and I fear that what I have written little deserves the honour of association with works of genius like M. Gustave Dore's pictures. But I have the single satisfaction of knowing that I have done the best I could.

TOM HOOD.

November, 1865.

CONTENTS.

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY

LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD

PUSS IN BOOTS

CINDERELLA

HOP O' MY THUMB

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY.

IN that strange region, dim and grey,

Which lies so very far away,

Whose chronicles in prose or rhyme
Are dated "Once upon a time,"

There was a land where silence reigned
So deep,--the ear it almost pained
To hear the gnat's shrill clarion blow, -
Though he Sleep's herald is we know.

Scarce would you deem that calm profound,
Unbroken by the ghost of sound,

Had, like a sudden curtain, dropt
Upon a revel, instant stopt,--

That laugh and shout and merry rout
And hunting song had all died out,

Stricken to silence at a touch--

A single touch ! It was not much !

I 'll tell you how it came about.

What bevies of pages
Of various ages
Princess Prettipet's christening banquet engages !

They all look as deeply important as sages.

What hundreds of cooks !

To judge by their looks,

They had written the very profoundest of books.

(Of course, books like those by Hobbes, Bacon, or Hooker I
Mean -- not mere Kitchener's Essays on Cookery.)

l

As to the cartes,

From the soups to the tarts,

'T would need to detail them a man of some parts ;
While to eat of each item --

To taste -- just to bite 'em,

The veracious voracious will own would affright 'em.

If you want to find out
The amount, or about,

Of the salmon, beef, partridges, lobsters, sourcrout,

Maccaroni, potatoes, cream, cutlets, ice, trout,

Lamb, blanc-mange, kippered herring, duck, brocoli sprout,
Sheep's trotters, real turtle, tripe, truffles, swine's snout,

Sole au gratin, snails, birds' nests, Dutch cheese, whiting-pout,
Jelly, plovers' eggs, bitters, liqueurs, ale, wine, stout,

Peas, cheese, fricassées, and ragoût--(say ragout
For the sake of the rhyme)--

And have plenty of time,

And a knowledge of figures (which I call a crime),
Because it's a feat that would puzzle beginners--
Make out and declare
The cube of the square ,

Of twice twenty thousand of Lord Mayor's grand dinners.

#####

The invited guests begin to arrive :

With nobles and courtiers the scene is alive.

They hustle,

And bustle,

In rich dresses rustle ;

The squeeze for good places is almost a tussle;

Precedence depends not on birth, but on muscle.

But they're none of them able
To reach the high table,

For the grave Major-Domo, perceiving the Babel,

A sufficient space clears
With the King's Musqueteers,

Because he well knows it will cost him his ears
If--when the time comes for the soups and the meats--
The twelve fairy godmothers cannot find seats.

At last there's a bray
Of trumpets, to say
That His Majesty's Majesty's coming this way,

With his Ministers all in their gorgeous array,

And the Lords of his Council, a noble display,

And the Queen, who's as beauteous as blossoms in May,
With her Ladies in Waiting so smiling and gay,

With a great many more
I might briefly run o'er
If at pageants like this I were only _au fait._

The glittering procession
Makes stately progression
To the seats that the Musqueteers hold in possession
At the top of the hall ;

While the visitors all
Are crowded to death, though the place is not small,

But from wall unto wall

Crammed with short folks and tall,

Who, as chances befall,

And in various degrèes
They suffer the squeeze,

bawl, brawl, haul, maul, squall, call, fall, crawl, and sprawl

The King's looking pleasant,

Expecting a present--

Say knives, forks, and spoons that cost many a bezant--

For his daughter and heiress
From each of the fairies ;

(A fay for a sponsor in these days quite rare is !)

But fairies, we' know,

Have gifts to bestow
More precious than silver and gold ones -- and so
One gives the babe beauty,

Another gives health,

This a strong sense of duty,

That plenty of wealth.

Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten
Add their presents, but when
Eleven have endowed her, the last of the dozen
Says, "I really don't know what to give her, dear cousin
(Addressing the Queen,)

"But the courses between
I shall hit upon something. I will not be mean ;
So pray take your seats, for I'm not such a sinner
As, while I am thinking, to keep you from dinner !"

The King has taken the highest place,

Beside him the Queen in her diamonds and lace.

Each fairy godmother
Sits down by another,

And my lord the Archbishop is just saying grace,

When in comes a cook, with a very white face,

Who cries, as he straight up the hall rushes nimbly,

"Please your Majesty, somebody's fell down the chimbley !

There's silence in the hall
For half a minute,

And not a word doth fall
From those within it ;

When, lo ! -- No ! -- And yet it is so !

The sound of a foot comes heavy and slow
Up the staircase from down below ;

And a figure ill-grown,

Unattended, alone,

Walks straight through the guests to the foot of the throne,
And then with a squeak
Rising into a shriek,

And eyes that with fury are terribly glistening,

Cries, "Pray, sir, why was not I asked to the christening ?"

'T was old Fairy Spite,

Whom they did not invite,

Because of her manners, which were not polite.

She led a bad life,

Was addicted to strife,

And besides -- worst of all -- she ate peas with a knife !
But 'twas really no joke
Her wrath to provoke.

So in hopes to appease her His Majesty spoke,

And said, sore affrighted,

"They both were delighted
To see her that day--

Quite charmed -- in fact, they
Couldn't think how it was she had not been invited !

Shrieked Spite, "Silence, gaby !

Let's look at the baby."

The Queen, in a tremble,

Her fears to dissemble,

Said, Here is the darling -- papa she'll resemble.

You'd like, p'rhaps, to take her,

But please not to wake her,

She sleeps." "Sleeps !" said Spite, "does she really ? I 'll make her

Of sleep, ma'am, have plenty"

(Here --"Chorus "_Attente !_")*

"If she touches a spindle before she is twenty !

"For if she does, a heavy sleep
Shall over all your palace creep,

And you, with your whole court, shall keep
Buried in leaden fetters deep ! "

"Until"--here Fairy Number Twelve,

Who, as we know, was forced to shelve
Her gift because the banquet waited,

Broke in and capped what Spite had stated--

"Until a prince shall come to wake
The Sleeping Beauty, and so break
The spell wherewith old Spite in vain
Would her young life for aye enchain !"

#####

The King sent heralds through the land
Proclaiming spindles contraband,

Pronouncing penalties and pains

'Gainst distaffs, treadles, rocks, and skeins.

And so to spin
Became a sin ;

Wheels were bowled out, and looms came in.

No more old women were allowed to meddle

With wheel or treadle ;

There were no spinsters left, the fair deceivers

All became weavers ;

* _The passage I quote in this wild dithyramb you'll
assuredly find in Act I. of "Sonnambula."_

The very name and uses of a spindle

To nought did dwindle ;

The fashion was, folks said,

Entirely dead,

Expired--past human effort to re-kindle.

Time's wonted pace
Is not a rapid race;

His motto seems to be "_Festina lente."_

But yet he passed away,

Until at length the day -

Approached on which the Princess would be twenty.

What consultations !

What preparations !

What busy times for people of all stations !

What scouring out of rooms
With mops and brooms !

What scouring to and fro of hurried grooms !

No leisure, not the least,

For man or beast,

Because His Majesty had fixed a feast--

Acres of eatables and seas of ale,

A banquet that should make all others pale,

E'en those of Heliogabalus, deceased--

To celebrate the day his child was quite
Beyond the malice of old Fairy Spite !

It was a scene of bustle and intrusion,

And vast profusion--

Such game, and meat, and fish, and rare confections !

The tables and the chairs
Down- and up-stairs
Were packed away--piled up in all directions,

In chaos, which the master of a house
Whose want of _nous_

Is such that he allows his wife a _soirée_,

Discovers round him, when tired out and sorry,

He fain would sleep, but cannot for the din doze--

In short, that plague, "a house turned out of windows."

No wonder the Princess, so meek and quiet,

Should run away from all the dust and riot.

No wonder, I repeat,

When all the suite,

From the Great Seal to her who made the beds,

Were hardly sure if they were on their heads,

Or on their feet !

No wonder the Princess--no soul aware,

Even of those who had her in their care--

Stole from her room, and up a winding stair,

Up to the highest turret's tipmost top,

Without or let or stop,

Went to enjoy the scenery and air !

In a room at the top of the tower that day

Merrily, merrily turned the wheel !
An old dame span, with never a stay,

Merrily, merrily turned the wheel !
The wool was as white as the driven snow,

Merrily, merrily turned the wheel !
And she sang, "Merrily, merrily, oh !

Merrily turn the wheel ! "

The Princess looked in at the door and said--

Merrily, merrily turned the wheel !--

"What bonny white wool, and what bonny white thread ! "

Merrily, merrily turned the wheel !

"Come hither, then, fair one, and make the wheel go ! "

Merrily, merrily turned the wheel !

Said ugly old Spite, who sang, "Merrily, oh !

Merrily turn the wheel ! "

She turns the wheel and wakes its busy hum,

She twists the white wool with her whiter fingers ;

She hears them call her, but she will not come :

Charmed with the toy, in that small room she lingers.

The wheel runs swiftly and the distaff's full,

She takes the spindle--heedless of who calls her.

Two tiny drops of blood fall on the wool,

And all that cruel Spite foretold befalls her !

On one and all

Did sudden slumber fall !

The steed that in the palace courtyard cropt--

The very bird upon the roof that hopt--

The cook who mincemeat for the banquet chopt--?

The gardener who the fruit tree's branches lopt--

The huntsman who his beaded forehead mopt--

The gay young lover who the question popt--

The damsel who thereat her eyelids dropt--

The councillor who fain the state had propt--

The King, his measures anxious to adopt--

The courtier in his new court suit be-fopt--

The toper who his beak in Rhenish sopt--

The scullion wiping up the sauce he slopt--

The chamberlain, as wise as ancient Copt--

The purblind peer who'd in the fountain flopt--

The jester who that fall with mirth had topt--

Stopt !

And over all there came a change ;

A silence terrible and strange

Enwrapt the place :
While thickets dense of thorn and brier
Grew round it till the topmost spire

They did efface.

And only agéd crones came nigh
To gather sticks ; or, passing by,

Some huntsman bold,
Spying a tower, would ask its tale,

And by the shepherds scared and pale

Would then be told--

How many a prince of noble blood
Had striven to penetrate the wood,

And reach the keep
Where that Princess so passing fair,

With King and Queen and courtiers there,

Lay wrapt in sleep.

But how none ever yet could make
A path through that thick-tangled brake--

And none came back,
But perished miserably there,

And left their bones all bleached and bare

In that dark track !

It was a solemn place, I ween,

Wrapt in its shroud of sombre green,

So hushed and still ;
The fall of every leaf you heard,

Nor was there in its shades a bird

To cheep and trill.

No cricket chirped beneath the hedge--

No reed-wren rustled in the sedge--

No skylark soared ;

Only at times, where round the keep
Did thickest snaky ivies creep,

A grey owl snored.

The sunlight slumbered on the wall ;

The trancéd shadow did not crawl,

Or scarcely crept ;
Dreaming the white lake-lilies lay
Above their image, still as they ;

The hushed wave slept ;

Like hermits dozing in their cells,

Drowsed in the drooping blossom-bells

The murmurous bees ;
All languidly the land up-clomb
Around the central palace dome

By slow degrees.

But that embowered pile did seem
A cloud from some fantastic dream--

Some visioned place :

Its towers were clothed in misty sheen,

And slumbering forests seemed to lean

About its base.

The branches nodded, and the breeze
Sighed ceaseless through the sleepy trees,

A long-drawn breath :
Nature's warm pulses here seemed stayed,
Steeped in a trance that all dismayed,

'T was so like death !

Only for ever grew and spread
The sombre branches overhead,

Thick leaf and bloom ;

As if to make for Nature's sleep
The brooding silence still more deep--

More deep the gloom !

Into the heart a terror sank :

The vegetation lush and rank

On all sides ran,

And looped and drooped in bine and twine ;
And never trace or track or sign

Of living man !

#####

Down by the river that runs through the wood
The horns are gaily winding.

Tra-la-la-la ! That music good
Denotes the red deer's finding !

Tra-la-la-la !

La-la ! la-la !

The echoes repeat
The music sweet
That tells of the red deer's finding !

Over the river and over the plain,

Through forest, vale, and hollow !

Tra-la-la-la ! That note again
Bids all good huntsmen follow.

Tra-la-la-la !

La-la ! la-la !

The sweet notes fail
Along the gale,

Then, all good huntsmen, follow !

By many a mile of moorland vast,
By many a mile of forest--
Tra-la-la-la !--the huntsman's blast
Tells where the chase is sorest.
Tra-la-la-la !

La-la ! la-la !

Oh, hapless deer,

Thy fate is near,

Which vainly thou deplorest.

In vain the flying quarry seeks

The dark wood's friendly branches :

The chase is done--its race is run,

The dogs are at its haunches.

The Prince looks back. He rides alone,
His suite no longer follow,

And he can hear no friendly cheer
In answer to his holloa !

What a chase !

What a race !

What a terrible pace !

He's outridden his friends. It's a very queer case--
Where _can_ he have got ? What's the name of the place
He 'll never be able his steps to retrace !

He pulls up his steed,

Not too early, indeed,

For the poor beast is finished, it shakes like a reed.

If his home lay quite near,

And he knew where to steer, .

His horse could not carry him there--that is clear.

Meanwhile each lengthening shadow shows
That day is drawing to a close.

In two more hours the glowing sun
Will down the western heavens run,

And quench its glories manifold
In yon bright sea of molten gold.

Before him that dense thicket vast and dim
Spreads out its awful silence and seclusion,

And none is near to tell its tale to him

And scare intrusion.

On either side his path a giant bole

Rears its huge form, a rude gigantic column.

That gloomy portal does not fill his soul

With fancies solemn.

His step is light on the luxuriant sod,

From the green blades a thousand dew-drops spurning.
Little he dreams that path has ne'er been trod

By foot returning.

Heedless he views the dark nooks in the glades,

Passing to spots that shafts of sunlight brighten--
Nor knows that human bones within those shades

Are laid to whiten.

For him there is no terror in the spot,

No hint of deaths to which it interest sad owes ;

For him no spectres its bright sunshine blot,

Or fill its shadows.

For him the secret of that grove profound
Is locked away--that tragic tale, and tearful.
To him the death-like calm that reigns around

Is strange, not fearful.

So on he fares, through sunshine and through shade,

By paths that ne'er before were trod by mortal,

To where the dusky forest's green arcade

Leads to a portal.

Along that silent avenue the young Prince gaily passes,

'T is carpeted with velvet moss beneath the nodding grasses.

The dreamy sunlight through the boughs upon the green sward streaming,
Sets here and there with radiance rare a lingering dew-drop gleaming.
On either hand rise lofty stems ; above, the branches mingle ;

And, as a glimpse of blue shuts in the end of some green dingle,
Framed in an arch of greenery where that long alley closes
He sees a flight of steps, a gate o'ergrown with truant roses,

And some one who beside the gate in that warm sunshine dozes.

Was ever there found
A sleeper so sound ?

He thumps him and shakes him,

But that never wakes him ;

Not kick, tweak, or pinch
Can stir him an inch.

I don't think he'd stir if you gave him a- big--
An immoderate slice of the coldest "cold pig."

Cried the Prince, leaping o'er
The page, "_Qu'il s'endort !_"

So he left that inveterate sleeper to snore
While he ventured on farther the place to explore.

"'T is a very fine place
As one clearly may trace--

Though, by Jove," said the Prince, and he made a wry face,

"From the dirt that's about, it don't seem they can muster
So much as a Turk's head, or dust-brush, or duster !

It's quite an inch thick :

Oh, wouldn't I lick
The minions for playing this slovenly trick,

If I were the owner, and had a big stick !

Look ! with curtains of velvet and carpets of plush, rooms--
And yet the floor's covered with toadstools and mushrooms !

It's well for the parlour-maid she'd not beside her
This child, when she left that great cobweb and spider.

It's evident cleanliness isn't their hobby ! "

With these words the Prince reached the end of the lobby.

From the lobby he passed to the guard-room, and thence
To the courtyard and gardens, which both were immense.

The palace, he sees, ?

Lies back beyond these,

Apparently rather too darkened by trees--

They're not trees though he finds, bringing closer his peepers,
But ivy and woodbine and other quick creepers,

Which with no interference of gardeners to "worret,"

Have climbed to the roof of the loftiest turret.

How those creepers have turned and twirled,

Twisted, wandered, rambled, and curled !

Such a place, I ween,

Had never been seen--

From basement to roof in such greenery furled--
Throughout the whole inhabited world.

Not even that building, so widely known
For its want of proportion--

That vast abortion,

The Exhibition of 'Sixty-two,

Though quite a monstrosity to the view,

Seemed half so "overgrown."

Swift across the court

Now the young Prince trips,

Sees around a sallyport
Hounds asleep in slips ;

Huntsmen bold, returned from sport,

All prepared to blow a _mort_,

Snoring, horns to lips !

There they were becalmed, like ships
Lying with all sail outspread,

Lifeless on an ocean dead.

He draws near : there is no one to bar his way,

E'en the steeds are too sleepy to utter a "nay,"

While each single hound
In the pack, I 'll be bound,

Is so sound there's no chance of his making a sound,
Though not wanting in bark, since he's closely bound round
With branches of creepers ;--but then they are boughs
That are not of the sort to be followed by "wows."

One huntsman would have an ugly fall
If he were not upheld by the palace wall,

Whence a stray branch of woodbine, in pitying scorn for him,
Has thrown out a trailer that's winding his horn for him.
Another one, dropt
Off soundly, is propt
By a buttress that stands where his steed by chance stopt.

An odd pillow, I vow ;

For you 'll surely allow
That unless of some slumber your need is the utt'rest,

A sleep on a buttress seems anything but rest.

Two men in the doorway
Appear in a poor way,

So closely they're bound
And wound
Around ;

Their feet in fetters, their temples crowned
By the snake-like stems in their various inclinings,

That they must appear
To the Prince, I fear,

Sleeping partners in some branch department of Twining's.

Past grooms as unawakened as sad sinners,

Past screws of hunters sound as Derby winners,

Past hounds as fast--no less--

As the express,

Through Bedfordshire into the land of Nod,

The young Prince trod,

And on through corridors and long arcades,

Halls wrapt in sombre shades,

And anterooms wherein had Echo slept
So long, it scarce awakened as he stept
Lightly and swiftly o'er
The dusty floor,

That sadly stood in need of being swept.

And ever and anon,

As he passed on,

In room, in hall, on stair,

Here, there, and everywhere,

He came on sleepers sleeping with the air

Of folks at active work by sleep o'ertaken,

Whom nothing could awaken ;

Not even being--like physic with a sediment
That to its being swallowed's an impediment--

Well shaken !

The housemaid, seemingly in fuss and fluster,
Tripping downstairs with feather-broom and duster,
Caught unaware
Upon the bottom stair
By sudden slumber, had quite failed to muster
Sufficient sense to rouse herself to any stir,

And so lay dozing up against the banister.

A lacquey, carrying upstairs the coal-scuttle,

Had fallen napping, and let fall the whole scuttle ;
A giddy page
Was, with another youngster of his age,

Playing at fly-the-garter in, the hall
When both asleep did fall--

One
Going to take a run,

Straining to start (as when is trained a pup--any
Pointer or sporting dog--and there gets up any
Partridge or pheasant, in the slip he 'll strain),
The other of the twain
Had fallen asleep w'hile tucking in his twopenny !

Within their barracks several of the guards
Were quarrelling in their slumber over cards ;

The butler in the cellar at the tap
Was taking such a nap,

He'd filled his silver flagon o'er and o'er,

And let the wine run all about the floor
Until the cask was drained and held no more.

But he'd continued after that to snore,

Until he was as dusted
And cobwebbed and encrusted
As rare old port, bottled in 'Thirty-four.

All these the Prince passed by with stealthy tread
As on he sped,

Until he reached the grandest room of all,

The banquet-hall,

Where on the board a mighty feast was spread.

But since the day when first that cloth was laid

Time had strange havoc made

With dish and dainty on the board arrayed ;

Had played strange tricks
With those--some five or six--

People of station
Who had been favoured with an invitation
To dinner with the ruler of the nation ;

In short, to no conclusion harsh to jump, any
Person of taste
Had thought the King disgraced,

Not only by his room, but by his company.

Vast mushrooms, spawn of hideous dreams,

Had quickened in the rotting seams,

And dusty cobwebs huge,
Wherein did bloated spiders lie,

And feign to sleep, were hung on high ;

But there was neither gnat nor fly

To catch by subterfuge.

The very mice had fallen asleep
That ventured in that hall to creep.

And where the sun athwart the gloom
Poured through the pane
A glittering lane
Like Dreamland's golden bridge,

You looked for stir of life in vain,
Because the very midge

Slept in that drowsy room,

As silent as the tomb !

The King--with half-way to his lips the beaker,
And head half turning to the latest speaker--
Presiding o'er his banquet, slumbered there-amid.
Like the first Pharaoh sleeping in his pyramid ;
While the Prime Minister, acute and wise,

Still saw what must be done with fast-shut eyes,
And, as behoved him in the royal presence,
Kept nodding to his Sovereign acquiescence.

The Treasurer and Chancellor of Exchequer
Was bolt upright, as trim as a three-decker.

For raising coin and borrowing he was meant,
And nobody could ever say he _leant_
To right or left,

E'en when of sense bereft.

The Secretary, Foreign and Domestic,
Upright did less stick,

And, being long accustomed to indite,

Inclined to right.

Beside the door a sentry
Stood like the Roman soldier in the entry
Discovered in the ruins of Pompeii,

(Or Herculaneum--which was't? You see, I

Have got no book of reference at all

Here in the country, not e'en what we'll call,

For sake of rhyme, a classical invént'ry).

At any rate, he stood
There like a thing of wood ;

And by his side did stand,

Salver in hand,

A servitor whose duty was to cater

With flagons, flasks, and bowls
For all the thirsty souls--

(He's called a buttery-man at Alma Mater)--

Well ! There this lad of liquor
Remained a sticker

Against the stair-foot, with his laden tray
Of claret, sherry, Burgundy, Tokay,

And other wines we 'll call et cætera--

Just like a very image or dumb-waiter.

Another 'mid the goblets lay a-sprawl--

It made the young Prince think
Him overcome with drink,

Which really had not been the case 'at all.

O ercome he was there's no denying, but
'T was only sleep ; for though the glass was cut,
He was not even blown--

He could have shown
He did not owe to any drop his fall.

Through every tiny crevice, nook, and cranny,
Heaven knows how many
Of every kind of creeping plant had sprouted
And grown and wandered since,

Till the young Prince
If he were in--or out--of doors half doubted.

The clinging tendrils,

Which Nature (as an officer his men drills)

Had taught to turn one way, enwound and bound
The silent sleepers who all slept so sound.

One trailer formed a sort of chain between
The foremost Maid of Honour and the Queen,

As if to say

To those who sleeping lay,

"It's time to rise, good sirs, and go away"--

In short, the very same remark that made is
By stingy hosts who save their wines by dint
Of the discourteous hint,

"Come, don't you think it's time to _join the laclies?_"

The young Prince gazed
Upon the scene amazed.

He shouted ; not a single head was raised--

No single sound upon the silence broke--
Nobody spoke--

All heads alike were bowed.

He shouted loud
As one who wishes to outroar a crowd ;

But not a word
He heard--

No creature stirred :

The situation really seemed absurd.

There lay the feast
Untouched for years at least ;

And though they'd sat so long,

Not one of all the throng -

Of feeding seemed inclined to be beginner,

And there was the young Prince,

Dropt in some minutes since,

And making such a din
Since he'd come in,

That he became for them another dinner.

At last tired out,

Of vain attempts by shout,

And even shake, to rout
From their deep sleep the slumberers about
The banquet-table,--

Whether he'd be able
Ever to wake them, feeling quite in doubt,

The Prince made up his mind
To leave them all behind,

And see if some one waking he could find,

And so passed on through halls and quiet cloisters,

But everywhere found people mute as oysters
And sound as tops.

But yet he never stops,

Though neither man nor woman, girl nor boy stirs.

All is as still as death,

And not a breath
Stirs the ancestral banners or the arras ;

No page's voice or groom's
Heard in the rooms,

No maid's shrill tongue the listener's ear to harass ;
No step upon the stair,

No footfall anywhere,

Not e'en on what Jane Housemaid calls the t_a_rrace.

But still the Prince his onward course pursued,

Half fearing to intrude,

As each fresh chamber doubtfully he stept in.

In tiring-rooms he views
The ladies' maids so tired they 're in a snooze.

Then for a change
Through sleeping-rooms he 'll range,

Which by some contradiction very strange
Appear the only rooms that are not slept in.

Yet onward still he strays
All undecided,

And yet his steps are guided ;

For round his head on airy pinion plays
A band of Fays,

Who lead him forward still by devious ways,
To where the Sleeping Beauty lies,

O'er whose tender violet eyes

For such years the lids have closed,

On her couch while she reposed.

"Come away !" sang each Fay,

"Now we hail the happy day
When the Prince shall break the spell
Spoken by old Spite the fell.

Now sing we merrily,

For the destined one is he ! "

Thus all gladly sung the Fays,

Though he could not hear their lays,
Wandering on as in a maze.

Last he reached a silent chamber,

Where through all the woodbine's clamber,
And the roses' red profusion,

And the jasmine's silver stars,

Glowed the glorious sun's intrusion--
Misty golden bars,

Touching all with amber. '

But--or e'er that room he entered
Where the magic all was centred,

For a space, in wonder, dumbly
Gazed he on that figure comely

Sleeping in the snowy bed,

Where the sunshine splendour shed
From the casement's pictured pane
Crimson, blue, and yellow stain
In a variegated rain.

(Not all colours, as we know,

That in painted windows glow
Can the sun contrive to throw--

Primal tints, red, yellow, indigo,

Will, however, through a "windy" go.)

One moment on the threshold--

One moment and no more !

So like a thing of dreams
And Fairyland she seems,

That he must pause till time his breath restore,

And he of life take fresh hold--

One moment and no more--

And then across the room he bounded
To that white bed by clustering bloom surrounded--
Across the startled floor,

Whence foot had been estranged so long before,
The frightened echoes that his step awoke
Seemed shrieking out to hear when silence broke !

In her bed, as white as snow,

Softly had she slumbered,

While old Time with silent flow
Had the long years numbered.

Quiet as the dead she lay,

Sleeping all those years away

On her pillow, woodbine-cumbered,

Wreathed with flowering may.

And her breath so softly slips
Through the rosy-tinted lips,

That the white lace seems to rest
Moveless on her whiter breast--

That it scarce appears to stir

One of all the fluttering motes
That, in love to look at her,

Glitter down the golden lanes
That the sun pours through the panes,
Bright with armonr-coats.

Drawn by her sweet lips' perfume,

As a bee to golden broom,

When the braes are all in bloom,

Stole the Prince across the room.

Every step he nearer set,

Oped the eyes of violet--

Oped a little--wider yet !--

Till the white lids, quite asunder,

Showed the beauties hidden under--
Showed the soft eyes, full of wonder,
Opening, towards him turned--

Till their radiance bent upon him
From his trance of marvel won him ;

And his bosom burned
With the passion to outpour
All his soul her feet before,

Careless if she spurned,

So that he might only tell
That he loved her--and how well !

Now through the palace woke the stir of life ;
Both fork and knife
Were in the banquet-hall with vigour plied,
While far and wide

Awoke so great a riot after the quiet,

It seemed as if the household was at strife.

Girl, woman, boy, and man
Bustled about and ran--

All hurried, not one plodding !

Because, you see,

Each thought that he or she
Had been the only one that had been nodding,

And, fearful of detection,

Was bound to strive and look alive,

In order to escape correction.

Meanwhile the red sun set. And yet
The household did not into order get :

All was surprise and wonder,

Error and blunder.

The fire was out, the cook was in a pet,

The feast was cold, the Queen was in a fret ;

The hunters just returned, they thought, from hunting,
Felt it affronting
Their game should get so very high and mite-y ;

The housemaid, seeing all the dust and dirt,
Felt hurt,
It drove her almost crazy--at least flighty.

But over all this din and turmoil soon
Uprose the silver moon,

And by its rays shed on the dewy grass,

Forth from the palace that young pair did pass,

And threaded the deep shades
In the arcades
Of sombre forests that around them lay.

And so they took their way
To Fairyland, wherein, as legends say,

'Mid mirth and merry-making, song and laughter,

They married, living happy ever after--

And there, I'm told, they 're living to this day !

LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD.

BY the side of a wood
A cottage once stood,

Where a little girl dwelt, who wore a red hood.

Her father of trees in the forest was cutter,

And her mother sold poultry, milk, eggs, cream, and butter.
The little red hood,

It must be understood,

Belonged to a mantle--as pretty and proper a cloak
As e'er you set eyes on :--in short, a red opera cloak.

But operas ne'er, that I am aware,

Had been heard of by any one dwelling round there ;
Whereas every dame had a cloak bright as flame
That she wore when out riding (which gave it its name.)
For then in those parts
They'd no chaises, spring-carts,

Gigs, or waggonettes, such as a farmer now starts ;

So Hodge, Reuben, or Giles,

Went his eight or ten miles
By the road--or the bridle path, dodging the stiles--
On his nag, grey or brown, to the next market town.

And were you to meet him, I'd bet you a crown
You would certainly find him
(If your sight's not, like mine, dim,)

A-jogging along with the goodwife behind him,

Perched up on the pillion of Dobbin or Dapple,

With a cloak like a poppy and cheeks like an apple :--

A cloak with a hood, that was really some good,

For use, not for ornament--one that you could
(That is, if you would)

Draw over your face quite closely, in case
The sun was too warm or the rain fell apace,--

A both-ears-protecting, eyes-shading, hair-hiding hood.

And that's why they called the child Little Red Riding Hood.

By the side of the cot where Red Riding Hood dwelt
Was a garden, surrounded by trees ;

The flowers were the sweetest that ever were smelt,

And were greatly beloved by the bees,

Who led jolly lives
In a couple of hives
Well sheltered from shower and from breeze.

Beyond the small garden, whose flowers were so sweet
Bees wooed them through long summer days,

The woodman had cleared a small patch for the wheat
That, as each year came round, he would raise,

To grind and to bake
For bread and for cake----

Simple wheat, not that wonder, a maize !

Now the sun rises and the world awakes,

For morning--like a careless servant--breaks ;

And from house, hut, and cot,

Hind, farmer, or what not,

Each villager his way to labour takes.

Each stride he makes a thousand dew-drops shakes
From off the fresh green grass they were besprinkling,

And makes them wink,

And gleam, and glance, and blink,

Until the peasant in great haste you think
Because he walks the whole way in a twinkling.

Red Riding Hood's father has shouldered his axe,

And is off to the woods again.

At the thwacks and the cracks as the timber he hacks
The echoing shades complain ;

But woe to the stem that his steel attacks,

For its murmurs are all in vain.

Red Riding Hood's mother has risen with day,

As soon as the hens were awake,

And down to the kitchen has taken her way,

From the hearth all the embers to rake,

And the butter and flour on the table to lay,

For she's bent upon making a cake.

But little Red Riding Hood's slumbering yet--

She is terribly lazy, I fear ;

For little folks up in the morning should get
As soon as the light becomes clear,

And not sleep away
The best time of the day,

Which is six, or about :--as I hear.

When the cake's nice and brown
The young lady comes down,

In her little white apron and little blue gown ;

Has for breakfast a bowl of fresh milk from the cow,
And when she has finished, her mother says, "Now,

Just slip on your cloak, dear, as quick as you can ; I
Want you to carry some things to your granny ! "

Red Riding Hood's drest,

And, looking her best,

Is only awaiting her mother's behest.

On the table is laid
The cake that was made
Ere Red Riding Hood opened her eyes, I'm afraid,

And beside it a pot
Whose equal could not
At Fortnum and Mason's be easily got ;

For, as every one tells me, fine fragrant fresh honey
Is not always obtainable, even for money.

[There are very few treats in the matter of sweets,

Like the honey one fresh from the honeycomb eats.

But fond as I am of a little fresh honey,

I can't watch the bees in their wanderings sunny
Without a great risk of a painful disaster,

Though I think it would trouble the famous "Beemaster"
(As his real name's a secret, we 'll say Dr. Thingamy)

To explain to a "fellah,"

_Qui tam amat viella_,

How it is that the bees make an object to sting o' me.)

"Little Red Riding Hood, child of mine," .

Said the mother to her daughter, .

"Through the forest of beeches, and larches, and pine,
And down by the pool of water,

And over the fields to your grandmother's cot
With the griddle-cake and the honey-pot,

Go, and tell her what you have brought her.

But--mind what I say--do not delay

To chatter with folks or pick flowers on the way!"

Little Red Riding Hood promised her mother

She'd not stop on the road to do one or the other.

"Such allurements I old enough now to withstand am,
So I 'll carry the honey and cake to my grandam,

And then you shall see how quick I can be.

Good bye, dearest mother !" And off hurried she.

The fields with buttercups are gold,

The hedges white with may ;

The woodbine's trumpets manifold
Are bright beside the way ;

The foxglove rears its lofty spire
Where hang the purple bells ;

In shady quiet nooks retire
The modest pimpernels ;

The poppy the green corn-fields decks,

The meads are bright with cowslips.

She loiters on her way, nor recks
How rapidly time now slips.

She enters now a glade,

Dappled with light and shade,

Through which the path is to her grandam's made ;
And as she strolls along,

Singing her careless song,

She meets a grim grey wolf. She's not afraid,
Because close by
She hears her father ply
His axe, and knows he'd to the rescue fly
If Master Wolf should any treason try.

And Master Wolf knows too it would not do,
Although it's hard with such a meal in view ;
And so most laudably
He makes himself quite pleasant,

For the present,

Albeit his stomach's crying "cupboard" audibly.

"What a nice cloak of scarlet !

How pretty you are ! Let
Me carry that cake or that very big jar :--let
Me carry it, pray--are you taking it far ? Let
Me see you safe there !" said the wicked old varlet.

Alas ! for Little Red Riding Hood,

That she should be naughty instead of good ;

That she should let the old wolf flatter,

And allow him to walk
By her side and talk,

When her mother so strictly forbade her to chatter.

"What your name is, my dear," he said, "fain I'd be knowing."
"I'm Little Red Riding Hood." "Where are you going ? "

"I am going to my granny's, to carry this jar
And this cake from my mother." "Indeed ! Is it far ? "

"Oh, you go through the wood, and a little beyond
You 'll see a small cottage that stands by a pond."

"And your granny lives there ?" "Yes ; but now she's so old
She can't get out of bed and she suffers from cold."

"Poor dear," said the wolf, with a pitying grin ;

"But how does she do about letting you in ? "

"When I reach granny's cottage I always take care
To knock at the door till she calls out 'Who's there?'
]Your grandchild, who brings you a bite and a sup
From her mother,' say I ;

And she's sure to reply,

'If you pull at the bobbin the latch will fly up.'

That's how I get in." "Oh !" said wolf, in a hurry,

"This lane is my way,

So I 'll wish you good day."

And he vanished at once in a terrible scurry ;

Said Red Riding Hood, "Doesn't he seem in a flurry ! "

Like a shot from a rifle,--or faster a trifle,

Away goes the wolf, and, I 'll wager my life, 'll
Be up to some mischief or other ere long,

For his only delight is in doing what's wrong.

Off through the wood--(he's up to no good),
Hastening still--(bent upon ill),

Round by the pond, to the cottage beyond
(He's after some evil I 'll give you my bond),

Stealing along--(intending a wrong)

Towards the grandam's abode, by the skirts of the road,
(By skirts I don't mean either muslin or calico,)

He sneaks to what Shakespeare has called "miching mallecho."

Rap, tap ! at the door.

In the midst of a snore
The old lady woke up with a start, and said, "Lor !

Red Riding Hood ne'er knocked so loudly before.

Oh, deary me, it cannot be she ;

I 'll pretend I 'm still sleeping, and then we shall see."

Rap, tap ! once more
She heard at the door :

The wolf rapped so hard that his knuckles were sore.

"The old woman sleeps like a top--what a bore !

If she doesn't make haste,

My time I shall waste--

I shall miss that tit-bit who's so much to my taste."

Rap, tap ! Tap, rap !

"She must wake from her nap,

Or the child will be here
Before I can clear
Her foolish old grandmother up, every scrap."

At last said the grandam,

"I rather a hand am
At sleeping, I know,

Very soundly, and so
Perhaps she has waited and knocked there so long
That, in order to wake me, her tap becomes strong.

Who 's there ?" then she cried ;

Said the wolf from outside,

Disguising his voice the deception to hide,

And whispering low with his mouth to a cranny,
"It's no one but Little Red Riding Hood, granny !

I've brought you some butter, some eggs, and a cake
That mother got up in the morning to make,

And she sends you besides some nice cream in a cup "

"If you pull at the bobbin the latch will fly up ! "

Wolf pulled at the bobbin,

And--what a sad job !--in
He went ; but no sooner had thrust his grim knob in
(But for rhyming, instead
Of "knob" I'd say "head")

Than the frightened old lady sat bolt up in bed :

But before she had time to exclaim, "Oh my gracious ! "

She was bolted entire by the monster voracious ;

Who, though the fierce pangs of his hunger were gratified,
Remarked to himself, with a grumble dissatisfied,

Tough skinny old folks are not nice things to victual one ;
However, no matter ! Here goes for the little one ! "

Then he turned down the bed-clothes and quickly jumped in,
And granny's big nightcap tied under his chin :

And he cuddled the clothes
Close up to his nose,

And was speedily off in a very nice doze ;

For said he, "For Red Riding Hood if I'd have any
Respectable twist I must first digest granny.

For though at one meal I could eat child, pa, _and_ mamma,
There's a good deal of picking somehow about grandmamma ! "

Little Red Riding Hood loitered along,

Stopping to hear while the thrush sang his song,

Or to list in the croft to the blackbird's clear whistle,
Or to follow the feathery down of the thistle--

Or blowing in flocks

The seeds from the "clocks "

Of the bright dandelions, or searching the docks
For the burrs, whose chief trick
Is to catch and to stick
To one's garments, no matter if thin ones or thick :
(Though it matters to _you_,

Because they come through--

Supposing your clothes are the former--and prick).

Why, foolish butterfly,

Will you skip, flutter, fly
Close by the child ? You 're an idiot utter, fly !
She puts down the honey and cake in a trice,

And the latter's immediately stolen by the mice.

But what does the latter at all to her matter :
She's after that butterfly, mad as a hatter.

[It's not clear to me
Why a hatter should be
Proverbially called a fit subject for _De
Luncitico_--so runs the writ--_inquirendo_ ;

But I fancy the hatter this harsh innuendo
Must, in the first place, to a humorous friend owe,
Who fain in the sneer would his gratitude smother
For a man who's invariably _felt_ for another.]
Through pastures and meads as the butterfly leads,

Red Riding Hood follows, and little she heeds
The orders and warning her mother that morning
Had given her, or even her grandmother's needs.

But when she comes back once again to the track,

And finds the cake gone, she grows frightened. "Alack ! "

She cries, "what a loss !

Won't granny be cross,

To breakfast off nothing--with honey for sauce?"

Just then a glittering dragon-fly
On gauzy pinion darted by.

Oh, he was clad in burnished mail,

His wing a fairy galley's sail,

And he was twice as big, I ween,

As the biggest butterfly she had seen.

Soon forgotten the honey's ;

She off with a run is
Where the dragon-fly glancing so bright in the sun is.
By ditches and hedges, by rushes and sedges,

By ponds full of reeds and all sorts of weeds,

By pools that are stagnant, and brooks full of waterbreaks,

She chases _Libellula_
Eagerly. [Well, you'll a-
Llow there must some
Awful punishment come
When her mother's commands in this manner a daughter breaks.]
But conceive her concern
When, ' on her return,

She finds that an empty jar's all she can earn.

For the ants had discovered it placed in a sunny spot,

And cleared all the honey, and left but the honey's pot.

Said she, "Lack-a-day !

What will grandmother say ?

And shan't I get scolded for stopping to play !

I'd better get on without further delay ! "

Resolution how vain ! Again and again
She loiters in meadow, wood, highway, and lane--
Strays into the coppice
To pick the bright poppies,

Or climbs up the hedge for the nest that a-top is ;

Or else she emerges
Where widely diverges
The forest's long avenues--leafy green arches
Of beeches, of ashes, of elms and of larches,

Which she lingers beneath
To pick for a wreath
A bright trail of ivy, that some lofty stem on is,

Or with bluebells her apron to fill--or anemones ;

Or to watch the quaint habits
And ways of the rabbits,

And the plans of the crows,

Who, as every one knows,

Establish their scouts
At certain look-outs,

To warn them of danger whenever they 've doubts.
[As touching these rooks,

Natural History books
Declare that the thing to their greatest _éclat's_
The fact--which should win them the warmest applause--
That nothing they do is e'er done without caws.]

But now she has passed
Through the forest, and fast
Is approaching her grandmother's cottage at last.

What excuse can she make
For the honey and cake ?

At the thought of that scrape she's beginning to quake.
She creeps through the garden,

Attempting to harden
Her heart, and declare she "Don't care a brass farden."
But, in spite of her trying,

She's very near crying,

And asking her granny to grant her a pardon.

The knock is so faint, that the wolf's scarce aware

That there's any one knocking, but cries out, "Who's there

"Red Riding Hood"--here on her speech broke a sob in--

"Come to see you." Said wolf, "If you pull at the bobbin,
The latch will fly up !" So she opened the door,

And tottered with terrified feet o'er the floor.

Said wolf, "Where's the cake
Mother promised to make?"

"Please, granny, to-day she's not able to bake,

For love or for money."

"Then where is my honey ? "

"What makes you expect any, granny ? How funny ! "

Said Little Red Riding Hood, trying to smile,

Although in a terrible fright all the while.

"To send me no breakfast," said wolf, "she was silly;

I 'm feeling so hungry and faint, I'm quite chilly.

As you 've brought me no food, you must warm me instead ;
I 'll take you in place of my breakfast in bed.

So take off your things, and, some help to your gran to be,
Jump into bed, just for once warming-pan to be."

She takes off her clothes,

And into bed goes.

Old wolf keeps the counterpane up to his nose,

But the child sees with fear
That, now she's so near,

Her grandmother's looking remarkably queer.

She trembles with fright, and in sad perturbation,

Commences the following brief conversation :

"Oh, granny, I view your long ears with surprise ! "

"They 're to hear all you say to the letter."

"Oh, granny, how fiery and big are your eyes ! "

"They 're to see you all the better."

"Oh, granny, your teeth are tremendous in size ! "

"They 're to eat you ! "

--AND HE ATE HER.

PUSS IN BOOTS.

'THERE once was a miller, who lived till he died--

It's been done by a good many people beside ;

But this miller, you see,

In particular--he,

On the brink of the grave--"on the banks of the _dee_,"
As a Scotchman would say (_vide_ song "Annie Laurie ; "

It North-country short is
For _articula mortis_)--

Made a will, whence arises the whole of my story.

Three sons had this miller,

To whom all his "siller," *

Stock, business, premises, goodwill, and "wilier"--

A tenure, in short, not to spin out my verse, on all
Things he died "seised" of, both real and personal,
(Exclusive, of course, of the very bad cough
With which he was seized--and which carried him off)
He had to devise--

And, as you would surmise,

Would divide in accordance with ages and size.

But no !--not a bit !

He hadn't the wit
For such a division--or didn't see fit ;

* Though with terms Caledonian this story is filled,
You 'll find it, 1 hope, only scotched, and not killed.

But made a partition
So strange in condition
That to one 't was a blow--for the others a hit .

It is half after one,

The funeral "s done,

The reading should now of the will be begun.

The youngest is crying,

The others are trying
To think who's most colour for praising the dying ;

Their loss doesn't grieve,

Since it does not bereave
Them of all that their father was able to leave.

(Though "where there s a will," says the proverb, you know,
There's always a Way"--there's not always a Woe.)

When the will is recited
They both are delighted,

For it proves their young brother is cruelly slighted.

For joy they with decency scarce can bemean them
When they find that their dad
Every thing that he had
Has left them, the eldest, to own all between them,

Save one thing--and that
Is only the cat,

Which he leaves to the youngest, described as "that brat."

The youngest, poor lad ! didn't care what he had,

By the loss of a father, not fortune, made sad.

But as silent he sat, nursing his cat,

And quite at a loss what he next should be at,