On the Tree Top Part 5

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 G.o.dmother 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 G.o.dmother, 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 G.o.dmother 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 gla.s.s; 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! n.o.body'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, t.i.ttered out behind his hat.

For here was all the evidence The Prince had asked, complete, Two little slippers made of gla.s.s, 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.

d.i.c.k WHITTINGTON AND HIS CAT.

Versified by Mrs. Clara Doty Bates.

d.i.c.k, 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.

There was bitter taste to the peasant bread, And a restless hardness to his bed; So, after a while, one summer day, Little d.i.c.k 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 n.o.body 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 compa.s.sionate-- 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!"

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 s.h.i.+p abroad, And he let each servant share her load; One sent this thing, and one sent that, And little d.i.c.k Whittington sent his cat.

The s.h.i.+p 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 ash.o.r.e.

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.

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.

When the good s.h.i.+p's homeward voyage was done, The money was paid to d.i.c.k 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, n.o.ble 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!

PUSS IN BOOTS.

Versified by Mrs. Clara Doty Bates.

A miller had three sons, And, on his dying day, He willed that all he owned should be Shared by them in this way: The mill to this, and the donkey to that, And to the youngest only the cat.

This last, poor fellow, of course Thought it a bitter fate; With a cat to feed, he should die, indeed, Of hunger, sooner or late.

And he stormed, with many a bitter word, Which Puss, who lay in the cupboard, heard.

She stretched, and began to purr, Then came to her master's knee, And, looking slyly up, began: "Pray be content with me!

Get me a pair of boots ere night, And a bag, and it will be all right!"

The youth sighed heavy sighs, And laughed a scornful laugh: "Of all the silly things I know, You're the silliest, by half!"

Still, after a s.p.a.ce of doubt and thought, The pair of boots and the bag were bought.

And Puss, at the peep of dawn, Was out upon the street, With shreds of parsley in her bag, And the boots upon her feet.

She was on her way to the woods, for game, And soon to the rabbit-warren came.

And the simple rabbits cried, "The parsley smells like spring!"

And into the bag their noses slipped, And p.u.s.s.y pulled the string.

Only a kick, and a gasp for breath, And, one by one, they were choked to death.

So Sly Boots bagged her game, And gave it an easy swing Over her shoulder; and, starting off For the palace of the king, She found him upon his throne, in state, While near him his lovely daughter sate.

Puss made a graceful bow No courtier could surpa.s.s, And said, "I come to your Highness from The Marquis of Carabas.