At chink or crevice a blinking eye, "The weasel's head is small an' trim, An' quick of motion an' nimble of limb, So day after day Said Jotham, "Sho! guess ye better go.' Shouldn't wonder 'f yeou might see me, 'Long 'bout noon, ef I git red O' this jumpin', thumpin' pain in my head." For all the while to himself he said,"I tell ye what! I'll fly a few times around the lot, To see how 't seems; then soon's I've The hang o' the thing, ez likely's not, He stitched and tinkered and hammered By flying over the celebration! away, Till at last 'twas done, The greatest invention under the sun. 'Twas the Fourth of July, and the weather And not a cloud was on all the sky, Half mist, half air, Like foam on the ocean went floating Just as lovely a morning as ever was seen Thought cunning Darius, "Now I shan't Along 'ith the fellers to see the show: "Ain't goin' to see the celebration?" Over their heads I'll sail like an eagle; I'll balance myself on my wings like a sea-gull; I'll dance on the chimbleys; I'll stan' on the steeple; I'll flop up to winders an' scare the I'll light on the libbe'ty-pole, an' crow; Fer I'll make 'em b'lieve I'm a chap f'm An' I'll try a race 'ith their ol' balloon!" He crept from his bed; To open the wonderful box in the shed. His brothers had walked but a little way, Then Sol, the little one, spoke: "By darn! | He stretches it out, an' pokes it about Le's hurry back, an' hide'n the barn, An' pay him fer tellin' us that yarn!" Lookin' to see 'f the coast is clear, An' nobody near; Guess he don'o' who's hid in here! "Agreed!" Through the orchard they He's riggin' a spring-board over the sill! creep back, Along by the fences, behind the stack, And one by one, through a hole in the wall, In under the dusty barn they crawl, Dressed in their Sunday garments all; And a very astonishing sight was that, When each in his cobwebbed coat and hat Came up through the floor like an ancient rat. And there they hid; and Reuben slid The fastenings back, and the door undid. "Keep dark," said he, Stop laffin', Solomon! Burke, keep still! He's climbin' out now Of all the things! What's he got on? I vum, it's wings! An' that t'other thing? I vum, it's a tail! And there he sets like a hawk on a rail! Now he stretches his wings, like a monstrous bat; “While I squint an' see what the' is to Peeks over his shoulder, this way an' that, see." As knights of old put on their mail,— (I believe they call the thing a helm,-) And, thus accoutred, they took the field, Sallying forth to overwhelm The dragons and pagans that plagued the realm; So this modern knight prepared for flight, Put on his wings and strapped them tight, Jointed and jaunty, strong and light,— Buckled them fast to shoulder and hip,Ten feet they measured from tip to tip! And a helm he had, but that he wore, Not on his head, like those of yore, But more like the helm of a ship. Fer to see 'f the's anyone passin' by; Flutt'rin' an' flound'rin', all'n a lump!" As a demon is hurled by an angel's spear, In a wonderful whirl of tangled strings, Shooting stars, and various things,- And much that wasn't so sweet by half. "Hush!" Reuben said, "he's up in the And what was that? Did the gosling shed! He's opened the winder, -I see his head! 'Tis a merry roar from the old barn-door, laugh? And he hears the voice of Jotham crying: | "Oh, where does faithful Gêlert roam, "Say, D'rius! how de yeou like flyin'?" Slowly, ruefully, where he lay, Darius just turned and looked that way, As he stanched his sorrowful nose with his cuff, "Wal, I like flyin' well enough," He said, "but the' ain't sich a thunderin' sight O' fun in't when ye come to light." I just have room for the MORAL here: And this is the moral,- Stick to your sphere; Or, if you insist, as you have the right, On spreading your wings for a loftier flight, The moral is,- Take care how you light. 376 The of "Beth Gelert" (Grave of Gelert) poem is really a verse version of an old folk story that has localized itself in many places over the world. In Wales they can show you where Gelert is buried, which illustrates how such a favorite story takes hold of the popular mind. The poem by William Robert Spencer (1769-1834) has so much. of the spirit of the old ballads which it imitates that it was believed at first to be a genuine example of one. BETH GÊLERT WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER The spearmen heard the bugle sound, And still he blew a louder blast, And gave a lustier cheer, "Come, Gêlert, come, wert never last Llewellyn's horn to hear. The flow'r of all his race, How for his house-keeping and high | "Secondlye tell me, without any doubt, How soone I may ride the whole worlde renowne, They rode poste for him to fair London towne. An hundred men, the king did heare say, The abbot kept in his house every day; And fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt, In velvet coates waited the abbot about. "How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee, Thou keepest a farre better house than mee, about. And at the third question thou must not shrinke, But tell me here truly what I do thinke." "O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt, Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet; But if you will give me but three weekes space, I'll do my endeavour to answer your grace." And for thy house-keeping and high "Now three weekes space to thee will I renowne, I fear thou work'st treason against my crown." "My liege," quo' the abbot, "I would it were knowne, I never spend nothing but what is my owne; And I trust your grace will do me no deere For spending of my owne true-gotten geere." "Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe, And now for the same thou needest must dye; For except thou canst answer me questions three, Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie. "And first," quo' the king, "when I'm in this stead, With my crown of golde so faire on my head, Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe. give, And that is the longest thou hast to live; For if thou dost not answer my questions three, Thy lands and thy living are forfeit to mee." Away rode the abbot all sad at that word, And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford; But never a doctor there was so wise, That could with his learning an answer devise. Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold, And he mett his shephard a-going to fold: "How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home; What newes do you bring us from good King John?" "Sad newes, sad newes, shephard, I must give; That I have but three days more to live: For if I do not answer him questions three, My head will be smitten from my bodie. |