



Produced by David Widger from page images generously
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MOTHER GOOSE FOR GROWN FOLKS

BY MRS. A. D. T. WHITNEY

Illustrated By Augustus Hoppin

Boston

Houghton, Mifflin And Company

1883

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INTRODUCTORY.


|Somewhere in that uncertain "long ago,"

Whose dim and vague chronology is all

That elfin tales or nursery fables know,

Rose a rare spirit,--keen, and quick, and quaint,--

          Whom by the title, whether fact or feint,

               Mythic or real, Mother Goose we call.



          Of Momus and Minerva sprang the birth

          That gave the laughing oracle to earth:

          A brimming bowl she bears, that, frothing

                    high

          With sparkling nonsense, seemeth non-

                    sense all;

          Till, the bright, floating syllabub blown by,

          Lo, in its ruby splendor doth upshine

          The crimson radiance of Olympian wine

               By Pallas poured, in Jove's own banquet-

                    hall.



          The world was but a baby when she came;

          So to her songs it listened, and her name

          Grew to a word of power, her voice a spell

          With charm to soothe its infant wearying

                    well.



          But, in a later and maturer age,

          Developed to a dignity more sage,

          Having its Shakspeares and its Words-

                    worths now,

          Its Southeys and its Tennysons, to wear

          A halo on the high and lordly brow,

          Or poet-laurels in the waving hair;

          Its Lowells, Whittiers, Longfellows, to sing

          Ballads of beauty, like the notes of spring,

          The wise and prudent ones to nursery use

          Leave the dear lyrics of old Mother Goose.



          Wisdom of babes,--the nursery Shak-

                    speare stilly--

          Cackles she ever with the same good-will:

          Uttering deep counsels in a foolish guise,

          That come as warnings, even to the wise;

          As when, of old, the martial city slept,

          Unconscious of the wily foe that crept

          Under the midnight, till the alarm was heard

          Out from the mouth of Rome's plebeian

                    bird.



          Full many a rare and subtile thing hath

                    she,

          Undreamed of in the world's philosophy:

          Toss-balls for children hath she humbly

                    rolled,

          That shining jewels secretly enfold;

          Sibylline leaves she casteth on the air,

          Twisted in fool's-caps, blown unheeded by,

          That, in their lines grotesque, albeit, bear

          Words of grave truth, and signal prophecy;

          And lurking satire, whose sharp lashes hit

          A world of follies with their homely writ;

          With here and there a roughly uttered hint,

          That makes you wonder at the beauty

                    in't;

          As if, along the wayside's dusty edge,

          A hot-house flower had blossomed in a

                    hedge.



          So, like brave Layard in old Nineveh,

          Among the memories of ancient song,

          As curious relics, I would fain bestir;

          And gather, if it might be, into strong

               And shapely show, some wealth of its

                    lost lore;

          Fragments of Truth's own architecture,

                    strewed

          In forms disjointed, whimsical, and rude,

          That yet, to simpler vision, grandly stood

          Complete, beneath the golden light of




BRAHMIC.


|If a great poet think he sings,

               Or if the poem think it's sung,

          They do but sport the scattered plumes

               That Mother Goose aside hath flung.



          Far or forgot to me is near:

               Shakspeare and Punch are all the same;

          The vanished thoughts do reappear,

               And shape themselves to fun or fame.



          They use my _quills_, and leave me out,

               Oblivious that I wear the _wings_;

          Or that a Goose has been about,

               When every little gosling sings.



          Strong men may strive for grander thought,

               But, six times out of every seven,

          My old philosophy hath taught

               All they can master this side heaven.




LITTLE BOY BLUE.


               "Little boy blue! come blow your horn!

               The sheep in the meadow, the cows in the corn!

               Where's little boy blue, that looks after the sheep?

               He's under the hay-mow, fast asleep!"


|Of morals in novels, we've had not a few;

          With now and then novel moralities too;

          And we've weekly exhortings from pulpit

               to pew;

          But it strikes me,--and so it may chance

               to strike you,--

          Scarce any are better than "Little Boy

               Blue."



          For the veteran dame knows her business:

               right well,

          And her quaint admonitions unerringly

               tell:

          She strings a few odd, careless words in a

               jingle,

          And the sharp, latent truth fairly makes

               your ears tingle.



          "Azure-robed Youth!" she cries, "up to

               thy post!

          And watch, lest thy wealth be all scattered

               and lost:

          Silly thoughts are astray, beyond call of

               the horn,

          And passion breaks loose, and gets into the

               corn!



          Is this the way Conscience looks after her

               sheep?

          In the world's soothing shadow, gone sound-

               ly asleep?"



          Isn't _that_, now, a sermon? No lengthened

               vexation

          Of heads, and divisions, and argumenta-

               tion,

          But a straightforward leap to the sure ap-

               plication;

          And, though many a longer harangue is

               forgot,

          Of which careful reporters take notes on

               the spot,

          I think,--as the "Deacon" declared of his

               "shay,"

          Put together for lasting for ever and aye,--

          A like immortality holding in view,

          The old lady's discourse will undoubtedly

               "dew"!




HICCOKY, DICCORY, DOCK.


                    "Hiccory, diccory, dock!

                    The mouse ran up the clock.

               The clock struck one, and down she run:

                    Hiccory, diccory, dock!"


|She had her simple nest in a safe and cun-

               ning place,

          Away down in the quiet of the deep, old-

               fashioned case.

          A little crevice nibbled out led forth into

               the world,

          And overhead, on busy wheels, the hours

               and minutes whirled.



          High up in mystic glooms of space was

               awful scenery

          Of wires, and weights, and springs, and all

               great Time's machinery;

          But she had nought to do with these; a

               blessed little mouse,

          Whose only care beneath the sun was just

               to keep her house.



          For this was all she knew, or could; with-

               out her, just the same

          The earth's great centre drew the weight;

               the pendulum went and came;

          And days were born, and grew, and died;

               and stroke by stroke were told

          The hours by which the world and men

               are ever growing old.



          It suddenly occurred to her,--it struck her

               all at once,--

          That living among things of power, her-

               self had been a dunce.

          "Somebody winds the clock!" she cried

               "Somebody comes and brings

          An iron finger that feels through and fum-

               bles at the springs;



          "And then it happens; then the buzz is

               stirred afar and near,

          And the hour sounds, and everywhere the

               great world stops to hear.

          I don't think, after all, it seems so hard a

               thing to do.

          I know the way--I might run up and

               make folks listen too."



          She sprang upon the leaden weight; but

               not the merest whit

          Did all her added gravity avail to hurry it.

          She clambered up the steady cord; it wav-

               ered not a hair.

          She got among the earnest wheels; they

               knew not she was there.



          She sat beside the silent bell; the patient

               hammer lay

          Waiting an unseen bidding for the word

               that it should say.

          Only a solemn whisper thrilled the cham-

               bers of the clock,

          And the mouse listened: "Hiccory! hie--

               diccory! die--dock!"



          Something was coming. She had hit the

               ripeness of the time;

          No tiny second was outreached by that ex-

               ultant climb;

          In no wise did the planet turn the faster to

               the sun;

          She only met the instant, but the great

               clock sounded--"One!"

          What then? Did she stand gloriously

               among those central things,

          Her eye upon the vibrant bell, her heel

               upon the springs?

          Was her soul grand in unison with that

               resounding chime,

          And her pulse-beat identical with the high

               pulse of Time?



          Ah, she was little! When the air first

               shattered with that shock,

          Down ran the mouse into her hole. "Hic,

               diccory! die--dock!"

          Too plain to be translated is the truth the

               tale would show,

          Small souls, in solemn upshot, had better

               wait below.






BO-PEEP.


          "Little Bo-Peep

               Has lost her sheep,

          And doesn't know where to find 'em;

               Let 'em alone,

               And they 'll come home,

          And bring their tails behind 'em."


|Hope beckoned Youth, and bade him keep,

          On Life's broad plain, his shining sheep,

          And while along the sward they came,

          He called them over, each by name;

          This one was Friendship,--that was Health;

          Another Love,--another Wealth;

          One, fat, full-fleeced, was Social Station;

          Another, stainless, Reputation;

          In truth, a goodly flock of sheep,--

          A goodly flock, but hard to keep.



          Youth laid him down beside a fountain;

          Hope spread his wings to scale a mountain;

          And, somehow, Youth fell fast asleep,

          And left his crook to tend the sheep:

          No wonder, as the legend says,

          They took to very crooked ways.



          He woke--to hear a distant bleating,--

          The faithless quadrupeds were fleeting!



          Wealth vanished first, with stealthy tread,

          Then Friendship followed--to be fed,--

          And foolish Love was after led;

          Fair Fame,--alas! some thievish scamp

          Had marked him with his own black stamp!

          And he, with Honor at his heels,

          Was out of sight across the fields.



          Health just hangs doubtful,--distant Hope

          Looks backward from the mountain <DW72>,--

          And Youth himself--no longer Youth--

          Stands face to face with bitter Truth.



          Yet let them go! 'T were all in vain

               To linger here in faith to find 'em;

          Forward!--nor pause to think of pain,--

          Till somewhere, on a nobler plain,

          A surer Hope shall lead the train

          Of joys withheld to come again

               With golden fleeces trailed behind 'em!






SOLOMON GRUNDY.


               "Solomon Grundy

               Born on Monday,

               Christened on Tuesday,

               Married on Wednesday,

               Sick on Thursday,

               Worse on Friday,

               Dead on Saturday,

               Buried on Sunday:

               This was the end

               Of Solomon Grundy."



          So sings the unpretentious Muse

          That guides the quill of Mother Goose,

          And in one week of mortal strife

          Presents the epitome of Life:

          But down sits Billy Shakspeare next,

          And, coolly taking up the text,

          His thought pursues the trail of mine,

          And, lo! the "Seven Ages" shine!

          O world! O critics! _can't_ you see

          How Shakspeare plagiarizes me?



          And other bards will after come,

               To echo in a later age,

          "He lived,--he died: behold the sum,

               The abstract of the historian's page"

          Yet