"Nay, friend, take it easy," the pear-tree replied (A lady-like person against the wall-side).

"Man guards, nurtures, trains us from top down to root: I think 'tis but fair we should give him our fruit."

"No, I'll not be gathered," the apple resumed, And shook his young branches, and fluttered and fumed; "And I'll not drop neither, as some of you drop, Over-ripe: I'm determined to keep my whole crop.

"And I with"--O'er his branches just then _something_ flew; It seemed like moth, large and grayish of hue.

But it was a Fairy. Her voice soft did sound, "Be the tree that bears apples all the year round."

The Dean to his apple-tree, came, full of hope, But tough was the fruit-stalk as double-twist rope, And when he had cut it with patience and pain, He bit just one mouthful--and never again.

"An apple so tasteless, so juiceless, so hard, Is, sure, good for nought but to bowl in the yard; The choir-boys may have it." But choir-boys soon found It was worthless--the tree that bore all the year round.

And Gloster lads climbing the Deanery wall Were punished, as well might all young thieves appal, For, clutching the booty for which they did sin, They bit at the apples--and left their teeth in!

And thus all the year from October till May, From May till October, the apples shone gay; But 'twas just outside glitter, for no hand was found To pluck at the fruit which hung all the year round.

And so till they rotted, those queer apples hung, The bare boughs and blossoms and ripe fruit among And in Gloster city it still may be found-- The tree that bears apples all the year round.

FOOTNOTE:

[A] This tree, known among gardeners by the name of "Winter-hanger" or "Forbidden Fruit," was planted by Dean Tucker in 1760. It, or an off shoot from it, still exists in the city of Gloucester.

THE JEALOUS BOY

WHAT, my little foolish Ned, Think you mother's eyes are blind, That her heart has grown unkind, And she will not turn her head, Cannot see, for all her joy, Her poor jealous little boy?

What though sister be the pet-- Laughs, and leaps, and clings, and loves, With her eyes as soft as dove's-- Why should yours with tears be wet?

Why such angry tears let fall?

Mother's heart has room for all.

Mother's heart is very wide, And its doors all open stand: Lightest touch of tiniest hand She will never put aside.

Why her happiness destroy, Foolish, naughty, jealous boy?

Come within the circle bright, Where we laugh, and dance, and sing, Full of love to everything; As G.o.d loves us, day and night, And _forgives_ us. Come--with joy Mother too forgives her boy.

THE STORY OF THE BIRKENHEAD

TOLD TO TWO CHILDREN

AND so you want a fairy tale, My little maidens twain?

Well, sit beside the waterfall, Noisy with last night's rain;

On couch of moss, with elfin spears Bristling, all fierce to see, When from the yet brown moor down drops The lonely April bee.

All the wide valley blushes green, While, in far depths below, Wharfe flashes out a great bright eye, Then hides his shining flow;--

Wharfe, busy, restless, rapid Wharfe, The glory of our dale; O I could of the River Wharfe Tell such a fairy tale!

"The Boy of Egremond," you cry,-- "And all the 'bootless bene:'

We know that poem, every word, And we the Strid have seen."

No, clever damsels: though the tale Seems still to bear a part, In every lave of Wharfe's bright wave, The broken mother's heart--

Little you know of broken hearts, My Kitty, blithe and wise, Grave Mary, with the woman soul Dawning through childish eyes.

And long, long distant may G.o.d keep The day when each shall know The entrance to His kingdom through His baptism of woe!

But yet 'tis good to hear of grief Which He permits to be; Even as in our green inland home We talk of wrecks at sea.

So on this lovely day, when spring Wakes soft o'er moor and dale, I'll tell--not quite your wish--but yet A n.o.ble "fairy" tale.

'Twas six o'clock in the morning, The sea like crystal lay, When the good troop-ship Birkenhead Set sail from Simon's Bay.

The Cape of Good Hope on her right Gloomed at her through the noon: Brief tropic twilight fled, and night Fell suddenly and soon.

At eight o'clock in the evening Dim grew the pleasant land; O'er smoothest seas the southern heaven Its starry arch out-spanned.

The soldiers on the bulwarks leaned, Smoked, chatted; and below The soldiers' wives sang babes to sleep, While on the ship sailed slow.

Six hundred and thirty souls held she, Good, bad, old, young, rich, poor; Six hundred and thirty living souls-- G.o.d knew them all.--Secure

He counted them in His right hand, That held the hungering seas; And to four hundred came a voice-- "The Master hath need of these."

On, onward, still the vessel went Till, with a sudden shock, Like one that's clutched by unseen Death, She struck upon a rock.

She filled. Not hours, not minutes left; Each second a life's gone: Drowned in their berths, washed overboard, Lost, swimming, one by one;

Till, o'er this chaos of despair Rose, like celestial breath, The law of order, discipline, Obedience unto death.

The soldiers mustered upon deck, As mute as on parade; "Women and children to the boats!"

And not a man gainsayed.

Without a murmur or a moan They stood, formed rank and file, Between the dreadful crystal seas And the sky's dreadful smile.

In face of death they did their work As they in life would do, Embarking at a quiet quay-- A quiet, silent crew.

"Now each man for himself. To the boats!"

Arose a pa.s.sing cry.

The soldier-captain answered, "Swamp The women and babes?--No, die!"

And so they died. Each in his place, Obedient to command, They went down with the sinking ship, Went down in sight of land.