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On The Tree Top

<h4 class = "headline"> CINDERELLA.</h4>     Poor, pretty little thing she was, The sweetest-faced of girls, With eyes as blue as larkspurs, And a mass of tossing curls; But her step-mother had for her Only blows and bitter words, While she thought her own two ugly crows, The whitest of all birds. She was the little household drudge, And wore a cotton gown, While the sisters, clad in silk and satin, Flaunted through the town. When her work was done, her only place Was the chimney-corner bench. For which one called her “Cinderella,” The other, “Cinder-wench.” But years went on, and Cinderella Bloomed like a wild-wood rose, In spite of all her kitchen-work, And her common, dingy clothes; While the two step-sisters, year by year, Grew scrawnier and plainer; Two peacocks, with their tails outspread, Were never any vainer. One day they got a note, a pink, Sweet-scented, crested one, Which was an invitation To a ball, from the king’s son. Oh, then poor Cinderella Had to starch, and iron, and plait, And run of errands, frill and crimp, And ruffle, early and late. And when the ball-night came at last, She helped to paint their faces, To lace their satin shoes, and deck Them up with flowers and laces; Then watched their coach roll grandly Out of sight; and, after that, She sat down by the chimney, In the cinders, with the cat,   And sobbed as if her heart would break. Hot tears were on her lashes, Her little hands got black with soot, Her feet begrimed with ashes, When right before her, on the hearth, She knew not how nor why, A little odd old woman stood, And said, “Why do you cry?”   “It is so very lonely here,” Poor Cinderella said, And sobbed again. The little odd Old woman bobbed her head, And laughed a merry kind of laugh, And whispered, “Is that all? Wouldn’t my little Cinderella Like to go to the ball? “Run to the garden, then, and fetch A pumpkin, large and nice; Go to the pantry shelf, and from The mouse-traps get the mice; Rats you will find in the rat-trap; And, from the watering-pot, Or from under the big, flat garden stone, Six lizards must be got.” Nimble as crickets in the grass She ran, till it was done, And then God-mother stretched her wand And touched them every one. The pumpkin changed into a coach, Which glittered as it rolled, And the mice became six horses, With harnesses of gold.   <ANTIMG src = "images/pic32c.png" width-OBS="289" height-OBS="360" alt = "Cinderella in gown"> One rat a herald was, to blow A trumpet in advance, And the first blast that he sounded Made the horses plunge and prance; And the lizards were made footmen, Because they were so spry; And the old rat-coachman on the box Wore jeweled livery. And then on Cinderella’s dress The magic wand was laid, And straight the dingy gown became A glistening gold brocade. The gems that shone upon her fingers Nothing could surpass; And on her dainty little feet Were slippers made of glass. “Be sure you get back here, my dear, At twelve o’clock at night,” Godmother said, and in a twinkling She was out of sight. When Cinderella reached the ball, And entered at the door, So beautiful a lady None had ever seen before.     The Prince his admiration showed In every word and glance; He led her out to supper, And he chose her for the dance; But she kept in mind the warning That her Godmother had given, And left the ball, with all its charm. At just half after eleven. Next night there was another ball; She helped her sisters twain To pinch their waists, and curl their hair, And paint their cheeks again. Then came the fairy Godmother, And, with her wand, once more Arrayed her out in greater splendor Even than before.   The coach and six, with gay outriders, Bore her through the street, And a crowd was gathered round to look, The lady was so sweet,— So light of heart, and face, and mien, As happy children are; And when her foot stepped down, Her slipper twinkled like a star. Again the Prince chose only her For waltz or tete-a-tete; So swift the minutes flew she did not Dream it could be late, But all at once, remembering What her Godmother had said, And hearing twelve begin to strike Upon the clock, she fled. Swift as a swallow on the wing She darted, but, alas! Dropped from one flying foot the tiny Slipper made of glass; But she got away, and well it was She did, for in a trice Her coach changed to a pumpkin, And her horses became mice; And back into the cinder dress Was changed the gold brocade! The prince secured the slipper, And this proclamation made: That the country should be searched, And any lady, far or wide, Who could get the slipper on her foot, Should straightway be his bride. So every lady tried it, With her “Mys!” and “Ahs!” and “Ohs!” And Cinderella’s sisters pared Their heels, and pared their toes,— But all in vain! Nobody’s foot Was small enough for it, Till Cinderella tried it, And it was a perfect fit.     Then the royal heralds hardly Knew what it was best to do, When from out her tattered pocket Forth she drew the other shoe, While the eyelids on the larkspur eyes Dropped down a snowy vail, And the sisters turned from pale to red, And then from red to pale, And in hateful anger cried, and stormed, And scolded, and all that, And a courtier, without thinking, Tittered out behind his hat. For here was all the evidence The Prince had asked, complete, Two little slippers made of glass, Fitting two little feet.   So the Prince, with all his retinue, Came there to claim his wife; And he promised he would love her With devotion all his life.   At the marriage there was splendid Music, dancing, wedding cake; And he kept the slipper as a treasure Ever, for her sake.         <h4 class = "headline"> DICK WHITTINGTON AND HIS CAT.</h4> <h4 class = "extended">DICK WHITTINGTON AND HIS CAT.</h4> <hr class = "micro"> <h6>VERSIFIED BY MRS. CLARA DOTY BATES.</h6> <hr class = "micro"> <ANTIMG src = "images/pic35a.png" width-OBS="266" height-OBS="168" alt = "Dick Whittington dreaming"> Dick, as a little lad, was told That the London streets were paved with gold. He never, in all his life, had seen A place more grand than the village green; So his thoughts by day, and his dreams by night, Pictured this city of delight, Till whatever he did, wherever he went, His mind was filled with discontent. <ANTIMG src = "images/pic35c.png" width-OBS="254" height-OBS="188" alt = "Dick coming up the area steps"> There was bitter taste to the peasant bread, And a restless hardness to his bed; So, after a while, one summer day, Little Dick Whittington ran away. Yes—ran away to London city! Poor little lad! he needs your pity; For there, instead of a golden street, The hot, sharp stones abused his feet. So tired he was he was fit to fall,— Yet nobody cared for him at all; He wandered here, and he wandered there, With a heavy heart, for many a square. And at last, when he could walk no more, He sank down faint at a merchant’s door. And the cook—for once compassionate— Took him in at the area-gate. And she gave him bits of broken meat, And scattered crusts, and crumbs, to eat; And kept him there for her commands To pare potatoes, and scour pans, To wash the kettles and sweep the room; And she beat him dreadfully with the broom; And he staid as long as he could stay, And again, in despair, he ran away. Out towards the famous Highgate Hill He fled, in the morning gray and chill; And there he sat on a wayside stone, And the bells of Bow, with merry tone, Jangled a musical chime together, Over the miles of blooming heather: “Turn, turn, turn again, Whittington, Thrice Lord Mayor of London town!” <ANTIMG src = "images/pic35b.png" width-OBS="249" height-OBS="175" alt = "Dick sitting outside"> <ANTIMG src = "images/pic36b.png" width-OBS="264" height-OBS="171" alt = "Dick buys a cat"> And he turned—so cheered he was at that— And, meeting a boy who carried a cat, He bought the cat with his only penny,— For where he had slept the mice were many. Back to the merchant’s his way he took, To the pans and potatoes and cruel cook, And he found Miss Puss a fine device, For she kept his garret clear of mice. The merchant was sending his ship abroad, And he let each servant share her load; One sent this thing, and one sent that, And little Dick Whittington sent his cat. The ship sailed out and over the sea, Till she touched at last at a far country; And while she waited to sell her store, The captain and officers went ashore. They dined with the king; the tables fine Groaned with the meat and fruit and wine; But, as soon as the guests were ranged about, Millions of rats and mice came out. They swarmed on the table, and on the floor, Up from the crevices, in at the door, They swept the food away in a breath, And the guests were frightened almost to death! To lose their dinners they thought a shame. The captain sent for the cat. She came! And right and left, in a wonderful way, She threw, and slew, and spread dismay. <ANTIMG src = "images/pic36a.png" width-OBS="257" height-OBS="130" alt = "Dick brings his cat to shore in a rowboat"> Then the Moorish king spoke up so bold: “I will give you eighteen bags of gold, If you will sell me the little thing.” “I will!” and the cat belonged to the king. <ANTIMG src = "images/pic36c.png" width-OBS="267" height-OBS="184" alt = "the cat catches rats"> When the good ship’s homeward voyage was done, The money was paid to Dick Whittington; At his master’s wish ’twas put in trade; Each dollar another dollar made. Richer he grew each month and year, Honored by all both far and near; With his master’s daughter for a wife, He lived a prosperous, noble life. And the tune the Bow-bells sang that day, When to Highgate Hill he ran away,— “Turn, turn, turn again, Whittington, Thrice Lord Mayor of London town,”— In the course of time came true and right, He was Mayor of London, and Sir Knight; And in English history he is known, By the name of Sir Richard Whittington! <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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