CUNNING LITTLE MICE

 

CUNNING LITTLE MICE - A TRUE STORY

A LADY tells us of a strange sight she once saw. When I was allowed to eat, she says, after a long and serious illness, my appetite was kindly tempted by dainties, sent to me by my friends. These were placed under tin covers on the top of a chest of drawers. The efforts of the mice to get at them were very droll. As fast as they clambered an inch or two up the sides of the slippery metal. they slid down again. They thought. if they could get to the top of the cove.r they would succeed so they mounted upon each other's shoulders and reached the top, but only to slip down again. At last half a dozen of them tried together to push the cover of the dish, but it was too firmly retained by the rim to be moved, and so the poor little mice had to give up trying to share my food.

References:

Chatterbox 1903  

THE WREN'S REQUIEM

 

THE WREN'S REQUIEM -A TRUE STORY

IT was on a morning early in the spring, a few years ago, that we heard an unusual twittering outside our bedroom window, above which is a deep thatch; on looking up we saw two curious festoons hanging from it, apparently in motion. It was, in fact, two half-circles composed of little wrens. clinging to each other by foot and wing, to the number of  twenty or thirty. They clung together thus for the space of about two minutes, it might be more or less; as we did not mark the time by a watch, I could not with certainty say how long. They twittered mourn fully all the while, so different from their usual joyous song; then suddenly, as if by one consent, they in a moment broke loose and flew away. On descending, shortly afterwards, we found a dead wren lying just under the window, over which these festoons of wrens had been hanging a few minutes before. It looked as if these affectionate little creatures had been singing a dirge over their dead friend below; at least we could think of no other cause for the unusual appearance. From that time the wrens deserted that spot for more than two years. On speaking of this to one who had made natural history his study, he told me that it was called the 'Wren's Requiem' and was an established fact, though very rarely seen.
 Chambers Journal 

References:

Chatterbox 1877

PRONUNCIATION.

 PRONUNCIATION.-VOCABULARY- AMERICAN ENGLISH- BRITISH ENGLISH

SHERIDAN agreed with Walker about the word 'wind,'pronouncing it 'wynd,';
but differed from him about 'gold,' which he would pronounce 'goold.' 

Sheridan tells us, that Swift used to jeor those, who pronounced 'wind' with a short i, by saying: "I have a great minn'd to fian'd why you pronounce it winn'd.'

A critic retorted this upon Mr, Sheridan, by saying:

'If I may be so boold, I should like to be toold why you pronounce it goold!'  

References:

Chatterbox  1877

THE SAILOR'S WIFE.

 

THE SAILOR'S WIFE.- A POEM

By CHARLES MACKAY  

Part I

I'VE a letter from thy sire, 
Baby mine! baby mine! 

1 can read and never tire, 

Baby mine! 

He is sailing o'er the sea,- 

He is coming back to thee, 

He is coming home to me, 

Baby mine! 

He's been parted from us long, 

Baby mine! baby mine! 

But if hearts be true and strong, 

Baby mine! 

They shall brave misfortune's blast, 

And be overpaid at last 

For all pain and sorrow passed, 

Baby mine! 

Oh! I long to see his face, 

Baby mine! baby mine! 

In his old accustomed place, 

Baby mine! 

Like the rose of May in bloom, 

Like a star amid the gloom, 

Like the sunshine in the room, 

Baby mine! 

Thou wilt see him and rejoice, 

Baby mine! baby mine! 

Thou wilt know him by his voice, 

Baby mine! 

By his love-looks that endear, 

By his laughter, ringing clear, 

By his eyes that know not fear, 

Baby mine! 

I'm so glad- I cannot sleep, 

Baby mine! baby mine! 

I'm so happy- I could weep, 

Baby mine! 

He is sailing o'er the sea, 

He is coming home to me, 

He is coming back to thee, 

Baby mine! 

Part II

O'ER the blue ocean gleaming 

She sees a distant ship, 

As small to view 

As the white sea-mew, 

Whose wings in the billow dip. 

'Blow, favouring gales, in her answering sails! 

Blow steadily and free! 

Rejoicing, strong, 

Singing a song, 

Her rigging and her spars among, 

And waft the vessel in pride along, 

That bears my love to me.' 

Nearer- still nearer driving, 

The white sails grow and swell; 

Clear to her eves 

The pennant flies, 

And the flag she knows so well. 

'Blow, favouring gales, in her answering sails! 

Waft him, O gentle sea!

And still, O heart! 

Thy fluttering start! 

Why throb and beat as thou would'st part, 

When all so happy and blessed thou art? 

He comes again to thee!'

The swift ship drops her anchor-

A boat puts off for shore,- 

Against its prow, 

The ripples flow, 

To the music of the oar. 

'And art thou here, mine own,my dear, 

Safe from the perilous sea? 

Safe, safe at home, 

No more to roam! 

Blow, tempests blow- my love has come; 

And sprinkling the clouds with your dashing foam! 

He shall part no more from me!' 

CHARLES MACKAY 

 

Ginger Crow

 

Ginger Crow- A rhyme

'Racoon's tail am berry long, 
Monkey's nose am blue, 
Oh, Missy Dinah!

Chickabiddy coo! 

Walk, Ginger Crow! 

Jenny, O my!

Old Johnny Walker 

Hit him in the eye!'

References:

Chatterbox 1877 

THE FISHER LAD.

 

THE FISHER LAD.- A POEM

By the Author of 'Earth's Many Voices'  

I SEEK my bread by honest toil 
Upon the changing deep; 

I work by day while others work, 

By night while others sleep;

But their bread is not more sure on land 

Than mine upon the sea, 

When I lower down my empty net 

For God to fill for me.  

My boat is tossing restlessly 

Upon an angry tide, 

While folk upon the shore I know 

In quiet homes abide; 

But they are not more safe on land 

Than I upon the sea, 

With dangers lurking round my path, 

And God's hand guiding me. 

References:

Chatterbox 1877

A CURIOUS FACT

 

A CURIOUS FACT.- TRUE STORY

MANY years ago a friend of my father's built a country house, which he fitted up and furnished according to his own taste. To accomplish this, he caused to be brought from Italy a piece of pure white marble, out of which a mantelpiece was constructed for his own particular sitting room. The mantelpiece was of singularly pure marble in one block, and free from flaw save in one part. Shortly after its erection, the owner of the house noticed a small damp-looking stain, nobigger than the nail of his little finger, in the very centre of the mantelpiece; this, however, was so slight a blemish that it did not trouble him, till, as months and years went by, it became evident that the mark slowly, but surely increased in size. For twenty years the good man of the house sat in his arm chair facing the curious stain, and marvelling what caused its certain spread. At the lapse of that period. it had increased to the size of the palm of his hand. and he could no longer rest in patient contemplation of it. Masons were sent for, and desired to take down the marble, and break it in two, so as to disclose the mystery. This was done, and to the amazement of all, out hopped an enormous toad.

 H.A.F.

References:

1. Chatterbox 1877
2. The Brickbuilder 1912 

THE 'SWEEP' OF LONG AGO

THE 'SWEEP' OF LONG AGO-  A POEM

CALL'D is the little sweep, 

By a resolute voice and gruff, 
While the cold stars twinkle in the deep, 

And the winter winds are rough.

He huddles on his rags, 

Without a wash or prayer; 

He shoulders his broom and sooty bags, 

And dives down the rotten stair.   

Half awake the boy glides out, 

In the streets so drear and lone; 

The clouds have been down in a waterspout, 

And the kennels are like the Rhone. 

He nibbles a crust as he goes, 

He shivers with sleet and rain, 

Through his third-hand boots peep frozen toes, 

And his hands are numb with pain. 

He rings at the rich man's door, 

And, 'Sweep!' he loudly screams; 

But footman, cook, and housemaid snore, 

And the buttoned page-boy dreams. 

Then louder swells his cry, 

And the bell yet louder peals, 

Till upon the housemaid's memory 

'That kitchen chimney!' steals. 

'Ann! hark! The door-bell rings! 

There's the sweep, Ann! Don't you hear?' 

The cook awakes, and dons her 'things,' 

Snappish and cross, we fear. 

To leave one's morning sleep 

At a cold and dismal hour, 

When the winter stars yet blink and peep, 

Is enough to make one sour. 

And to hear one's mistress scold, 

As one hurries down, half-drest, 

Is galling to one of mortal mould, 

Robbed of a two-hours' rest. 

Thy lines may be hard, O Cook! 

Thy life perpetual Lent, 

But on the sweep's ill-fortune look, 

And learn to be content. 

He, in the days gone by,  

Ere pity changed his doom,

Must weep and toil, and sometimes die, 

In suffocating gloom. 

Hail to the kindly hearts 

Which cared, poor Sweep, for you; 

And here's to the brush of Mister Smart's,* 

That sweeps the chimney-flue. 

G.S.O.

* The inventor of the machine called 'The Last Chimney sweeper.'  

References:

Chatterbox 1877

THE BOY ON THE GATE

 

THE BOY ON THE GATE.- A POEM

by JOHN ORTON 

THE rosy-cheeked urchin that swings on the gate
Is a right merry monarch in all but estate; 

But treasure brings trouble -what title is free? 

Thus better without one, thus happy is he; 

For the ring of his laugh is a mirth-moving strain, 

Which a choir of young creatures respond to again, 

The birds are all singing, each heart is elate 

With the rosy-cheeked urchin that hangs on the gate. 

The rosy-cheeked urchin that swings on the gate 

Hath Nature's own pages upon him to wait; 

His joyous companions- a cherubim crew, 

With posies of daisies and buttercups too.

 He boasts not of jewels on forehead or breast, 

But his heart is all gladness- his mind is at rest. 

Ah! what are the honours, the glories of state, 

To the rosy-cheeked urchin that hangs on the gate?

The rosy-cheeked urchin that swings on the gate 

Waves proudly on high his satchel and slate; 

The sky is all brightness, the fields are all gay, 

Green branches are waving, the lambs are at play;

And where is the bosom that pines not to be 

Thus bathed in the sunlight as happy as he? 

For the heart's purest pleasures we find when too late, 

And sigh to be swinging again on a gate. 

JOHN ORTON 

References:

Chatterbox 1877

  

DOG AND DUCK

 

DOG AND DUCK - A TRUE STORY

IN a recent number of the Leisure Hour there is a story of a chicken and a cat, which reminds me of a circumstance when I was at the vicarage of Willesden. We had a duck which, after losing her brood, comforted herself by making a friend of a large French poodle-dog, kennelled in the yard. The attachment was mutual and strong. The duck fed out of the dog's bowl and slept in his house. They had also their little gambols, when the dog sometimes would take the duck's neck into his mouth, I need not say without hurting his playmate.

R.W.B.

References:

Chatterbox 1877 

CHILD'S PLAY

 

CHILD'S PLAY - A POEM

By the Author of Earth's Many Voices 

WITH care and cunning we shaped a boat, 

My brother Robbie and I; 
We rigged it next with sail and mast, 

We said it should be quite safe and fast,

My brother Robbie and I.

We made fast to it a slender rope, 

My brother Robbie and I; 

A rope by which we might guide its way,

 When we launched our boat in our tiny bay, 

My brother Robbie and I;  

The bay was set with perils, we knew, 

My brother Robbie and I; 

We knew them well- the thickets of reeds, 

And water-lilies, and tangled weeds- 

My brother Robbie and I. 

The day when we launched our little boat, 

My brother Robbie and I, 

Our playmates watched on the other bank; 

Oh! what if it sailed, and what if it sank, 

Thought brother Robbie and I. 

We sailed our boat right safely across, 

My brother Robbie and I; 

And when our boat to the shore drew near, 

We heard our comrades raise a cheer, 

My brother Robbie and I. 

Now we are old and grey with years, 

My brother Robbie and I. 

Many a venture we've sent afloat, 

Many a one since our tiny boat, 

My brother Robbie and I. 

Many a time we have wrought with care, 

My brother Robbie and I; 

But never success has seemed more dear 

Than the day when we heard our comrades cheer, 

My brother Robbie and I. 

Yes, we are old and grey with years, 

My brother Robbie and I; 

And we tell this story for those who say 

Of some careless task, 'It is mere child's play!' 

My brother Robbie and I. 

When folk say so, we shake our heads, 

My brother Robbie and I, 

And 'Oh, not so! not so!' cry we; 

'For child's play, it is done earnestly,' 

Say brother Robbie and I. 

References:

Chatterbox 1877

ASTONISHMENT

 

ASTONISHMENT - A Poem

By G.S.O.

WELL, I do declare, what a terrified stare! 

What can be the matter, I say, 
That you look so amazed, with your eyebrows upraised, 

And your master's milk running away?  

O is it the rector, policeman, or spectre? 

Or is it a lad for a spree 

Got up in full fig, and a mask as a brigand? 

Or is it an owl in the tree? 

Or is it a squeak that has whitened your cheek,

 And made your hands useless with dread? 

Or the rustle of leaves in the wind by the eaves? 

Or a rat running over your head? 

Or are you afraid of a shadow that's made 

By the moon as she peeps through a chink? 

Come, hold the pan tight, or a supperless night, 

And a flogging, will greet you, I think. 

Though he walks with a swagger, a lath for a dagger, 

Jack Brown is Jack Brown, and no more; 

A goblin is nought but a fanciful thought, 

That squeak was a mouse, or a door. 

And no one need mind the stout Constable Bind, 

If he hasn't done anything ill; 

Good boys, we are told, as a lion are bold, 

When he roams the dark waste at his will. 

To the lad full of fear the hobgoblins appear, 

But the hero they never molest; 

He laughs at white sheets and such moonshine deceits, 

For he minds but his work and his rest. 

Too busy for ghosts, for his tasks come in hosts, 

And a hundred odd jobs he must do:

Too sleepy at night to lie shaking in fright, 

When the solemn old owl says, 'To-whoo! 

Come, Bobby, look up or the kittens will sup 

All the precious milk wasting away; 

Do mind what you're at, or the thanks of the cat 

Are all you will get, boy, to-day! 

         .

Boys want all their senses for tables and tenses, 

For their games and a thousand things more; 

Your wits, Bob, they dream-don t you hear the 

white stream 

As it falls with a splash on the floor?

And here I must stare like a fool, I declare! 

Only think, Mister Hunt, what you've done! 

While the world wants a book like a soft I must 

look, 

And the milk that is running, must run! 

Yes, so it must be; then take warning by me, 

Mind you always look knowing and clever, 

Be you youngsters or men, lest some Hunt come 

again, 

And make you a greenhorn for ever!  

References:

Chatterbox 1877

ANTICIPATION

 

ANTICIPATION- A Poem

By G.S.O. 

DISTANCE (so the bard has shown us) 
Lends enchantment to the view; 

And what seems a splendid bonus, 

Sometimes is not worth a sou,

Sunny peaks prove drear and icy 

When we've scaled the rocky stair; 

Yonder isle, so green and spicy, 

Is as fatal as it's fair.

In our thoughts we may be greeting 

Friends we here shall see no more; 

As we dream their souls are flecting 

Upward, to a brighter shore.   

While his body is abiding 

In the prison-house of school 

In his spirit Jack is sliding 

On the jolly Christmas pool. 

Long before the half is over, 

Long ere May has drest the land, 

Ned is on the beach at Dover, 

Digging sluices in the sand. 

Ere the jam and flour are blended 

By his mother's loving art, 

Jones has eaten, and commended 

All his cake and currant tart! 

Meanwhile father Jones is building 

Airy castles and renown- 

Laying on the paint and gilding- 

How he will astonish Brown! 

Mary, by the fireside stitching, 

Walks the summer lanes with Phil; 

Or at church, a bride bewitching, 

Plights* her troth for good and ill. 

Rover, like his lord is gifted- 

He can eat his dinner twice; 

When it hangs on high uplifted, 

Looking oh so very nice. 

And when- mutton, beef, or bacon- 

(As his doggish tastes may run,) 

In his mouth capacious taken, 

Proves a sorry scrap of bun. 

As you eye old Rover dining 

Off the little bits that fall, 

Sweetly-tempered, unrepining, 

Be contented one and all. 

*Gives. 

References:

Chatterbox 1877

RATS

 

RATS- TRUE STORY HAPPENED IN THE USA 1876

AN American paper vouches for the truth of the following story, respecting some rats. A young rat had fallen into a pail of pig wash. Six friends or relatives of the little rat saw what had happened and appeared to held a consultation as to the best means of extricating the infant rat. So earnest were their deliberations, that they entively ignored the presence, who were watching their proceedings with deep interest. The rats quickly decided on an ingenious scheme, which they at carried into effect. Entwining their feet together, the six rats formed a chain over the edge of the the pail;the foremost rat, supposed to be the mother, tenderly grasped the drowning little rat in her arms, and both were drawn out on the floor. The end the story is sad. The infant rat was, on examination, by its rescuers found to be dead. After gazing it for some moments the six elderly rats seemed wipe the tears from their eyes with their fore-paws, and then departed, without making any attempt restore the little one to life.  

References:

Chatterbox 1877

TO A CHILD ON ITS BIRTHDAY

 

TO A CHILD ON ITS BIRTHDAY 

by  MRS. HEMANS 

WHERE sucks the bee now?- Summer is 

flying, 
Leaves on the grass-plot faded are lying; 

Violets are gone from the grassy dell, 

With the cowslip-cups where the fairies dwell; 

The rose from the garden hath passed away, 

Yet happy, fair boy! Is thy natal day. 

For love bids it welcome, the love which hath smiled 

Ever around thee, my gentle child! 

Watching thy footsteps, and guarding thy 

bed, 

And pouring out joy on thy sunny head.

Roses may vanish, but this will stay- 

Happy and bright is thy natal day.  

References:

Chatterbox 1877