ONE-OX vs. LITTLE KLAUS / THE LITTLE FARMER

Last month I translated a medieval fairytale (well, fairytale sensu lato: the supernatural occurrences are only tricks of the trickster hero) and gave you a preface on its more well-known variations from the Romantic period, the Golden Age of Fairytales. However, there are a few differences between the medieval One-Ox, on one hand, and, on the other, Andersen's Little Klaus and Big Klaus and the Grimms' The Little Farmer, both meant for the Victorian nursery.

After the French Revolution and the Victorian Industrial Revolutions, a nursery culture developed distinct from that of bourgeois adults. Hallmarks of the ancien régime high society such as sweets, having a sweet tooth, dressing in bright colours, toys, games, gift giving, holidays, and even fairytales went from being associated with the courtly society of the eighteenth century to being associated with children and the nursery in the Victorian era, because children were the most powerless members of Victorian bourgeois society, while adults dressed in dark colours, especially in black (except for the military and servants, some of which even wore powdered wigs!) and drank bitter beverages like coffee (on the mainland) and tea (in the British Empire). The point in which teenagers switched from hot chocolate to tea or coffee and started wearing ladies' gowns or gentlemens' suits was treated as a solemn coming-of-age ceremony at which the freshly-become adult cast aside all childish things (these facts I took from Schivelbusch's Tastes of Paradise!).

Romanticism also idealized childhood, like it idealized provincial/rural living and native tribes, believing all of these collectives to be more innocent than corrupt bourgeois society. This led to the movement's interest in folklore and traditions: crafts, holiday traditions, superstitions, and especially fairytales. While the Grimms gathered märchen from the folk, whether one of the brothers' Huguenot (French Protestant) wife or simple country folk, most of Andersen's tales (inspired by Hoffmann's works, for instance The Nutcracker, by Fouqué's Undine, etc.) were literary, though some of them, like The Little Mermaid or The Snow Queen, also contain folklore and mythological elements. And then you have Andersen's witty renditions of folktales from his childhood, your Princess on the Pea, your Emperor's New Clothes, and Andersen's own take on One-Ox, Little Klaus and Big Klaus. The Grimms' folk version, The Little Farmer, is quite similar to Little Klaus, and both tricksters' names hint at their poverty, just like One-Ox's itself. All three stories feature the same skeleton, from the trickster taking the hide of his only ox (horse in Andersen) to market - to his enemies (three of them in One-Ox: the Mayor, the Priest, and the Sheriff - only one in the Romantic versions: the Mayor in Grimm and the landowner Big Klaus in Andersen) drowning themselves after they swallow the lie that the trickster got all his pigs (sheep in Grimm) from an underwater realm. The story skeleton is Tale Type 1535.

So far we have seen the first differences, some animals change species (One-Ox's and Little Farmer's only ox becomes Little Klaus' only horse; the "aquatic" pigs acquired by One-Ox and Little Klaus become "aquatic" sheep in the Grimm version), and the trickster goes from having three enemies in One-Ox (Mayor, Priest, and Sheriff) to only one in the Romantic versions: the Mayor in Grimm and the landowner Big Klaus in Andersen. 

But there are more differences - notably, that the Romantic versions erase all the scatological (pee and poop) elements that would have been seen as disgusting in the Victorian nursery. For starters, the way One-Ox acquires his silver treasure while taking his hide to market, at the start of the story. In the medieval One-Ox, he finds the treasure while tearing up a tuft of grass to wipe his bottom after relieving himself:

Luck smiles upon him

as he enters the thick forest;

while relieving himself,

he discovers a silver treasure.

As he seeks to wipe his bottom,

tearing fistfuls of grass,

under a tuffet, he finds

what greedy people love the most.

He uncovers three bags full

of silver coins, hidden in the grass,

and soon his saddle-bag

is brimming with wealth.

In the Romantic versions, the trickster acquires his treasure in a completely different manner. En route to market, a storm forces him to take shelter in a windmill where the miller is away and his wife lets the trickster (Little Klaus or the Little Farmer) sleep in the loft and eat simple peasant fare (bread and butter in Grimm, porridge in Andersen). Suddenly there is a knock on the door and the wife's lover (the local priest in Grimm, the bellringer --the man who rings the church bells-- in Andersen) enters the mill. The wife greets him with lots of hugs and kisses and sweet words (this is a nursery tale, but the kids will be reading between the lines), producing a roast beef from inside the oven and a cake from under the bed, after which wife and lover sit down to the feast. When suddenly the wife hears the husband approaching, she hides the roast back in the oven, the cake back under the bed, and her lover in the cupboard. The miller asks his wife what's for lunch (supper in Andersen), and she offers him the same peasant fare she has offered the trickster (bread and butter in Grimm, porridge in Andersen). But of course the trickster, from the loft, has been watching the wife's love affairs and knows that there's something going on... Suddenly the hide the trickster has been taking to market (in Andersen) squeaks, or his pet crow (in Grimm) squawks, and the trickster says he has a genie in his hide (a very smart crow in Grimm), whose "words" he will be glad to "translate:" in that manner, the husband learns of the roast beef in the oven and the cake under the bed, at which point miller, wife, and trickster sit down to eat the roast and the cake (instead of porridge, or bread and butter), but the crow squawks/the hide squeaks a third time, at which point the trickster says that what his genie/crow is saying is a very dark secret that should not be known. The husband insists, and the trickster says that there's a devil (monster in more bowdlerized versions) inside the cupboard... still the miller is curious, and the trickster opens the cupboard to reveal the lover. Here Andersen says that the husband had a phobia of bellringers, but he is equally frightened in both the Andersen and Grimm versions - suggesting, though not explaining, since this is a nursery tale, that he had a suspicion that his wife was having an affair with the priest/bellringer. The trickster has to take the lover away, and it is the lover who gives him all that silver (gold in Andersen) as a reward:

Grimm:

Then the wife had to give up the keys (to the cabinet), and the Little Farmer unlocked the cabinet. The priest ran out as fast as he could, and the miller said, " I saw the Black Fellow (devil/monster, actually his wife's lover) with my own eyes. It was true."

The next morning at crack of dawn the Little Farmer quickly made off the with the three hundred talers (silver coins), which the priest gave him.

At home the Little Farmer gradually began to prosper. He built a nicer house, and the villagers said, "The Little Farmer has certainly been to the place where golden snow falls and people carry money home by the bushel."

Andersen:

The miller (husband) opened the cabinet a very little way, and peeped in.

“Oh,” cried he, springing backwards, “I saw him (devil/monster), and he is exactly like our bellringer! How dreadful it is!” So after that he was obliged to drink again, and they sat and drank (alcohol) till far into the night.

“You must sell your genie to me,” said the miller; “ask as much as you like, I will pay it; indeed I would give you directly a whole bushel of gold.”

“No, indeed, I cannot,” said Little Claus; “only think how much profit I could make out of this genie.”

“But I should like to have him,” said the husband, still continuing his entreaties.

“Well,” said Little Claus at length, “you have been so good as to give me a night’s lodging, I will not refuse you; you shall have the genie for a whole bushel of money, but I will have quite full measure.”

“So you shall,” said the husband; “but you must take away the cabinet as well. I would not have it in the house another hour; there is no knowing if he may not be still there.”

So Little Claus gave the miller the sack containing the dried horse’s hide, and received in exchange a bushel of gold—full measure. The husband also gave him a wheelbarrow on which to carry away the cabinet and the gold.

“Farewell,” said Little Claus, as he went off with his money and the great cabinet, in which the wife's lover lay still concealed. On the other side of the forest was a broad, deep river, the water flowed so rapidly that very few were able to swim against the stream. A new bridge had lately been built across it, and in the middle of this bridge Little Claus stopped, and said, loud enough to be heard by the bellringer, “Now what shall I do with this stupid chest; it is as heavy as if it were full of stones: I shall be tired if I roll it any further, so I may as well throw it in the river; if it swims after me to my house, well and good, and if not, it will not much matter.”

So he seized the cabinet in his hands and lifted it up a little, as if he were going to throw it into the water.

“No, leave it alone,” cried the bellringer from inside the cabinet; “let me out first.”

“Oh,” exclaimed Little Claus, pretending to be frightened, “he is in there still, is he? I must throw him into the river, that he may be drowned.”

“Oh, no; oh, no,” cried the bellringer; “I will give you a whole bushel full of gold,  if you will let me go.”

“Why, that is another matter,” said Little Claus, opening the cabinet. The bellringer crept out, pushed the empty chest into the water, and went to his house, then he measured out a whole bushelful of gold for Little Claus, who had already received one from the miller, so that now he had two bushels, a wheelbarrow full.

Similarly, the whole episode about the silver-pooping mare in One-Ox is absent in both Andersen and Grimm:

The once-poor One-Ox

grabs a handful of his silver,

and succeeds to trick the armed host.

He draws his mare from the stables,

lifts her tail quite high,

and shoves all the silver coins

into the mare's rectum.

He makes the horse stand

in the middle of his cottage,

and then spreads

a white linen over her back.

His three enemies,

standing outside, threatening him,

witness a miraculous event.

Standing on the threshold,

they want to kill One-Ox,

yet they're all frozen in place,

surprised by the new event.

They observe One-Ox

working over some silver;

as he rubs the mare's flanks,

he brings forth a great sum.

"What is this, One-Ox!?

Why is this beast clearly

producing so much silver for you,

and astounding the three of us?"

One-Ox replies cautiously:

"See all these silver coins?

This beast's intestines produce

silver in lieu of worthless dung.

Every night she pours out

such sums, such high amounts,

that Cybele, Queen of Money,

is surely enthroned upon her anus."

Once the trio have seen the money

and heard the story,

their anger instantly abates

and they say to One-Ox:

"Enjoy your good fortune

and sell us this precious beast!

If so, we will end our feud

once we've bought these swollen flanks!"

One-Ox, full of tricks,

replies to the trio of friends:

"It's not easy to give away

such a source of wealth for free.

There's a wonderful treasure

inside the belly of this beast;

surely, for bestowing such gifts,

she is not exactly cheap."

"If you wish to delight yourself

further in your great fortune,

dear One-Ox, no longer tarry

selling this mare to us!"

The crafty One-Ox replies

to the three nincompoops:

"I'll sell you three my noble beast,

but not at a small price.

You've seen what she has produced,

how much silver she has showered.

If you want coffers full of silver,

you have to pay the price!

Give me fifteen pounds sterling,

if you may be so kind.

In a short time, she will repay your debt

in cash instead of excrement."

After paying One-Ox

the fifteen pounds sterling,

the trio lead the mare

with a rope for a leash,

greedily guarding her.

The Priest speaks eagerly:

"You two must listen to me!

I want to be the first

to lead this beast into my stables!

Since I am the first in the parish church,

I shall have the mare first.

At dawn I'll collect the fifteen pounds

that I owe One-Ox.

I shall have her the first night,

you, Sheriff, the second,

and you, Mayor, the third,

according to the scales of equity."

"So mote it be," says the Sheriff.

"So mote it be," replies the Mayor.

"This is a gentlemen's agreement.

Let us be patient."

(All three men only get "horse-apples" from the mare, leading them, in their fury, to try to assassinate One-Ox. This episode is entirely absent in both Andersen and Grimm!)

For this same reason, the most scatological fairytales in Basile's Pentamerone, like The Cockroach, the Rat, and the Cricket, were never translated into English in the Victorian era, and were only Englished first in the twentieth century, when sensibilities had changed and it was understood that children actually like (even love) toilet humour (like in Captain Underpants, some Swedish Bellman jokes, Bart Simpson's humour, and nowadays every DreamWorks film has to contain at least one scatological gag - no surprise that DreamWorks adapted Captain Underpants!).

THE SEVEN AGES OF CHILDHOOD

 Recently while looking for lost Victorian gems, I found this little interpretation of Jacques' Seven Ages speech in As You Like It, but adapted to Victorian childhood (instead of Renaissance adulthood). Shakespeare, Victorian childhoood, and a style that reflects each stage of life (the toddler's lisp, the schoolgirl's curiosity, the teenage maiden's dreams of princes and princesses...). Seven Ages of Childhood has many things that I adore <3 ...

Verses by Carolyn Wells, illustrations by Jessie Wilcox-Smith

******************************

I 

 First the Infant in Its Mother's Arms 

 Baby, of all mysterious things, 

You're stranger far than stars or kings. 

You stare superbly day by day, 

Nor let your large reserve give way. 

Unfathomable mysteries 

Lurk in your big, unseeing eyes, 

Making brave memories, and yet, 

Making them only to forget. 

But though reflectively you blink, 

Trying to make us think you think, 

We know you cannot think or talk, 

You cannot run, you cannot walk; 

You little human mystery, 

You can't do anything but be. 

 You small, content, safe-guarded thing, 

Nestling beneath your mother's wing. 

You're all so new; your roseleaf skin, 

Your dewy eyes and dimpled chin, 

Your pinch of hair and pound of flesh 

Are all so delicate and fresh. 

Then, Baby, every little while 

You cry. And then perhaps you smile. 

You cry without a bit of reason, 

You laugh both in and out of season; 

A wise proceeding, I suppose, 

If that is all the speech one knows. 

 But sometimes do the dull hours drag? 

And sometimes does your patience flag? 

Long days and nights you must get through,

 Without a single thing to do. 

And though perhaps you see and hear, 

It means naught to your eye and ear. 

But, Baby, you don't seem to care, 

You hark at silence,—look at air! 

 And in the stillness, or the dark, 

Absorbedly you look and hark. 

So, then, what difference can it make, 

Whether you are asleep or 'wake? 

You cannot think, and it would seem 

You do not know enough to dream. 

How can you dream, not knowing words? 

Or is it like the song of birds, 

Or scent of flowers, or sunshine bright, 

Or South breeze on a summer's night? 

 Perhaps your thoughts just flounder 'round 

In seas of color, waves of sound; 

In notions vague of shape or form. 

As,—Life is something soft and warm. 

Mother is just a happy place; 

Nurse is a sort of vacant space. 

And father is a kind of stuff, 

That's woolly, black and rather rough. 

 And then some day into your eyes 

There comes a look exceeding wise. 

And then your brain begins to grow; 

You learn "How does the Kitty go?" 

You learn to "Love the Lambie Baa," 

And "Make a Face at Grandmamma!" 

And then upon your own account 

You seem to learn a large amount, 

As you laboriously prove 

That your own fingers really move! 

And if you have accomplished this, 

And if you've learned "a Spanish kiss;" 

And if three times you've said "Goo—goo!" 

Why, that's a busy day for you! 

****************************** 

 II 

Then the Toddling Baby Boy, 

With shining morning face, 

Creeping like a snail. 

 Queer, drifting fancies, vague and dim, 

'Neath his gold curls are hid. 

The kitchen steps appear to him 

Those of a pyramid. 

 With mighty purpose in his mind, 

He clambers up. And then, 

With purpose quite as well defined, 

He scrambles down again. 

 Then, of all busy ones of earth,— 

Toilers beneath the sun, 

Working away for all they're worth, 

He is the busiest one! 

 Down in the sand he has to dig 

A hole, exceeding deep; 

And by its side, all smooth and big,

He piles a lovely heap. 

 With both hands then he scatters it 

Round the verandah floor; 

And when he's scattered every bit, 

He scoops it up once more.

 He has to watch the rainy drops 

Drip, dripping from the wall; 

Then, quick as anything, he stops 

To go and roll his ball. 

 Across the lawn he seems to see 

A funny little stick; 

So he must needs go hastily 

And give the thing a kick.

 The laughing sunshine sifts right through 

His mop of tangled curls; 

Turning it to a golden hue, 

And kinking it in twirls. 

 And then he hums with all his might 

A funny little song;

 Some of the notes are almost right, 

And some are sort of wrong. 

 Then he must watch a ladybird 

That crawls across the floor; 

Then listen! for he thinks he heard 

An awful lion roar! 

 He has to stop and 'member things; 

"Once out at Gran'ma's house 

They was a birdy wiv red wings! 

And kitty caught a mouse! 

 "And then in Sunday-school one day, 

The children all stood 'round, 

And sang a song 'bout why—delay,— 

It had a lovely sound." 

 Whatever can, or can't be known, 

He much desires to know; 

For suddenly his wonder-bone 

Has just begun to grow. 

 "I wonder what that birdy's at 

Over to Gran'ma's house. 

I wonder why a kitty cat 

Is 'llowed to catch a mouse. 

 "I wonder why the doggie whines,

 I wonder why he does; 

I wonder why the dandylines 

All turns to fuzzy-fuzz. 

 "I wonder why my shadow-boy 

Hops fast along as me; 

I wonder why my newest toy 

So broken seems to be. 

 "I wonder why they disappear 

That sharp and shiny tool; 

I wonder why my muvver dear 

Won't let me go to school. 

 "I wonder why a deaded fly 

Won't ever come alive; 

I wonder why I'm only free, 

An Dorofy is five!" 

 Each hour with wonder new is fraught; 

Until he thinks so fast, 

He wonders what it was he thought 

When he was thinking last. 

 Wondering, singing, 'membering,— 

He learns anew each day, 

The world is but a bouncing ball 

For him to kick in play. 

 ****************************************** 

 III 

Then the Epicure 

With fine and greedy taste for porridge. 

 Next to the Epicure we turn, 

With a discerning taste in porridge; 

Yet careful, lest her mouth she burn,

 Like the o'er hasty man from Norwich, 

For now, her judging powers have grown; 

She thinks with wisdom all her own. 

 In tones that leave no room for doubt 

She intimates she is unable 

To eat her bread and milk without 

Her bear and dolly on the table. 

And nurse, because of her insistence, 

Follows the line of least resistance. 

 She does not want a nice clean dress; 

She's very, very sure she doesn't! 

She wants to go to Grandma's,—yes! 

She wasn't naughty,—no, she wasn't! 

And knows with wilful, shaking head, 

She does not want to go to bed! 

 She doesn't want to speak her piece; 

She doesn't want her hair all curly; 

She isn't Auntie's pressus niece! 

She isn't mother's darling girlie! 

Then suddenly, a change pacific,—

 And her new mood is beatific! 

 Cherubic smiles drive frowns away, 

She vows that she loves evvybuddy! 

She will be goody-girl all day; 

Nor get her shoes and stockings muddy. 

She will not go outside the yard; 

And she "loves muvver awful hard!"

 Sometimes the martyr mood appears, 

She's good in meek, submissive fashion; 

Reproachful eyes show signs of tears, 

And red cheeks hint a stifled passion. 

She wonders, "when she gets to heaven, 

If children go to bed at seven!" 

 She favors games of "let's p'tend," 

And with an energy unfailing, 

She plays the role of calling friend, 

Dressed up in anything that's trailing. 

From, "Ding-a-ling!" "Come in"; a bow,— 

To, "Well, I must be going now." 

 Her reasoning powers have come alive, 

Her mind is rapidly awaking. 

The sharpest bargains she can drive, 

Conditions she is ever making. 

"I'll sing my song for uncle,—yes, 

If you will make my doll a dress." 

 Her mind, obeying nature's law, 

Like morning-glory's soft unfolding, 

Fills with a deep, enchanting awe 

Those who are breathlessly beholding; 

And they exclaim, "Well, did you ever!"

"She's surely going to grow up clever!" 

 She dances down Life's primrose way 

Unconscious of her faults and merits; 

The grown-ups watch her at her play, 

And they opine that "she inherits 

Her mother's gentleness; but still 

She seems to have her father's will."

 *********************************** 

 IV 

Then the Lover, 

sighing like a furnace. 

 In the soft soil of little lives 

Affection quickly springs and thrives 

And grows like anything; 

Its tiny tendrils Love puts out, 

Not knowing what it's all about, 

But glad to smile and sing. 

 Perhaps it is a favorite doll, 

Often the raggedest of all, 

That bids affection start. 

Unstinted love is gladly poured 

Upon the dolly so adored 

By little Tenderheart. 

 Now love grows very fast, and so 

The little heart will overflow, 

And love will run to waste; 

It must needs fall on this or that,— 

The dog, the baby or the cat; 

Quite Catholic its taste. 

 Perhaps a schoolmate gets a share; 

The little girl with braided hair, 

That sits next in the class; 

The one with wide, pathetic eyes, 

Blue as the warm midsummer skies, 

A timid little lass. 

 A bashful glance,—a furtive look,— 

Some words about a lesson book;

 And then a smile or two. 

Then,—"You're the nicest girl I know!"

 And, "So are you!" "I love you so."

 And, "So do I love you!" 

 Together arm in arm they walk, 

They do not care for others' talk, 

Nor with the others play;

In softest whispers they impart 

The secrets of each little heart, 

Intimate friends are they. 

 And yet, though fair and sweet the fruits, 

So fragile are affection's roots, 

A trifle works them ill; 

A single hasty word, or curt, 

The little tendrils oft will hurt;

 A frown perhaps may kill. 

 "She told me what you said 'bout me!"

 "I think she's mean as she can be!"

 "I'm mad at you! So there!"

 "I'll never speak to you again!" 

"All right, Miss Meany, don't you then!

You needn't think I care!" 

 And then, just as the big tears start, 

Homeward runs little Broken-heart, 

And to her own room flies; 

"Dolly, my darling dolly, pet, 

You love me, dear, you love me yet!" 

She whispers with wet eyes. 

 Ah, human love brings but unrest, 

Once more she catches to her breast 

The love that cannot fail; 

The love that makes her heartache cease, 

The love that brings a soothing peace, 

No other can avail. 

Instinctive love, that can't be taught, 

That giveth all and asketh naught, 

Reigns in one heart alone. 

Its own reward it can create, 

It makes the heart inanimate 

Responsive to her own. 

 ***************************** 

V 

Then the Scholar; 

With eyes severe, and hair of formal cut. 

 Nothing is quite so hard, I think, 

As drawing maps with pen and ink. 

You dot the cities, every one, 

And make long lines where rivers run. 

 And every single coasting line 

Must wave in curves as fine as fine. 

The rivers wriggle up and down 

Across the green and through the brown; 

 You have to measure all the while,— 

A half an inch is 'most a mile. 

I do think maps are awful queer, 

They seem to bring the whole world here. 

 Why, as I sit here in my chair, 

I see the countries everywhere. 

I see across to far Japan, 

With funny people, like a fan. 

 All red and purple clothes they wear, 

And knobby hatpins in their hair, 

And flowers and trees of simple kind, 

And that big mountain far behind. 

 Then, in the class, we have to give

 Description where the natives live. 

The countries that are coloured pink 

Are where the natives live, I think. 

 The people that live there, I'm sure 

Must be extremely sad and poor, 

With only rice and fish to eat, 

And not a single shady street. 

 I wonder if they ever think 

They live in countries coloured pink. 

 But drawing maps,—that isn't all; 

I was promoted in the Fall, 

And now I've lots of bigger books. 

Reading is harder than it looks. 

 You have to say your words just so,

 You mustn't read too fast or slow. 

It 'stracts you so, you can't find out, 

Sometimes, what stories are about. 

 But reader stories, anyway, 

Are never very glad or gay; 

They're mostly 'bout some noble deed, 

With fine, high-sounding words to read. 

 And though it sounds quite loud and grand, 

It's pretty hard to understand. 

But Friday afternoon's the time! 

We all speak pieces made of rhyme. 

 Next week, mine is the loveliest one, 

About "The South Wind and the Sun." 

It has such soft and singing words, 

Like "lily-bells," and "hummingbirds." 

 The south wind and the sun, you see, 

Were comrades, just like May and me. 

And they went wandering all about, 

Just full of laugh, and gleeful shout. 

 Dancing all springy on their toes; 

Wait! This is the way it goes: 

"Arm in arm they went together, 

Over heights of morning haze. "

Over slanting slopes of lawn, 

They went on and on and on, 

Where the daisies looked like star-tracks, 

Trailing up and down the dawn." 

 Don't you think that is nice to say 

Upon a breezy, shiny day? 

Some poets just know how to write, 

The loveliest pieces to recite; 

 So many that I'd love to speak,

 And just one Friday in each week! 

But then I study other things,— 

The Civil War, and Saturn's rings,— 

 I have to study hard, for, oh! 

There is so much I want to know. 

There's lots of knowledge, I suppose, 

More even than my Grandpa knows. 

 I look ahead, and seem to see 

That knowledge waiting there for me. 

I think, when I grow big and tall,

 I prob'ly shall have learned it all.

 ************************************* 

 VI 

The Sixth Age shifts 

To lean and slender maidenhood, 

With thoughtful eyes and quiet mien. 

 When all the others are at play, 

Sometimes I like to go away 

And sit beneath the willow tree, 

And wait for thought to come to me. 

 It's just the dearest quiet spot, 

Where I can think as well as not; 

And little breezes softly blow, 

That seem to make my feelings grow. 

 And all the sunny, golden air 

Is full of living, everywhere. 

Then, with a happy little sound, 

The branches murmur all around, 

 So close, I scarcely can see through 

The willow leaves against the blue. 

Yet far less clearly can I see 

Through tangled thoughts that come to me. 

 There seem to be, on every side, 

Doors suddenly flung open wide; 

Leading to places strange and fair; 

I want to go,—yet don't quite dare. 

 I've been a little girl so long, 

That, somehow, it seems almost wrong

 To think how grown-up I shall be 

In days that have to come to me. 

 Then, with my mind, I seem to look 

At life, spread open as a book; 

And I am almost glad, at last, 

That I am growing old so fast. 

 Cornelia,—she just wants to be 

A lady, and have friends to tea. 

But I should like,—I'm sure I should,— 

To be more nobly great and good. 

 Some one like Joan of Arc, you know;

 Saint Katharine, or Mrs. Stowe; 

And do brave deeds as they have done. 

I wouldn't marry any one; 

 Unless,—well, maybe, if there came 

A noble knight of doughty fame, 

Or else an Emperor or King 

Who wanted me like anything, 

 Maybe,—perhaps,—I might say yes,— 

But likely I'd say no, I guess, 

Well, as to that, some thought I'd give; 

But of one thing I'm positive, 

 I'll have a softly trailing gown,— 

Blue velvet edged with snow-white down. 

But, such a robe as that to wear, 

I'd have to be a Princess Fair. 

 And I'm quite sure I'd rather be 

Nothing but just a grown-up me, 

And have the wonders all come true 

That through those opening doors I view. 

 ************************************ 

VII 

Last scene of all that ends

 This strange eventful History— 

Is First Love and mere enchantment— 

Sans mother, sans father, sans brothers —sans everything. 

The year was at its very Spring, 

A dawning glory filled the air; 

So marvelous, it seemed to bring 

A sense of something strange and fair. 

 Slowly along the blossomed lane, 

Strolled, wondering, a girl and boy, 

Happy,—yet powerless to explain 

Whence came this new and mystic joy. 

 The pinky blooms upon the trees 

Swam in a fragrant, rosy blur; 

And suddenly he knew that these 

Had not the loveliness of her. 

 The knowledge made his heart stand still; 

Exquisite fancies filled his mind; 

He felt a power to voice at will 

Speech of the most exalted kind. 

 Poetic lines sang in his ears,

 Strophes ran riot in his head; 

And, almost with a thrill of tears,

 "It—it's a lovely day!" he said. 

 Unconsciously her hand met his; 

His simple nearness seemed to bless; 

She only murmured, "Yes, it is!" 

But all the world breathed tenderness. 

 Again the raptured silence fell; 

There was no need of spoken word;

 For each was conscious of the spell, 

And each the silent music heard. 

 From heart to heart the glad thoughts flew, 

Such sympathy the clasped hands gave, 

Her shyness made him timid, too,— 

His daring made her also brave. 

 Joy's cup seemed suddenly to brim, 

With magic nectar, sweet and rare. 

He was so glad she walked by him; 

She was so glad that he was there. 

 With silent lips and hearts aglow, 

They entered on life's Primrose way. 

Then, moved to speech, he cried out, "Oh! 

I think it's beautiful today!" 

 She looked, unheeding, at the skies, 

She gazed, unseeing, at the blue; 

Then glancing straight into his eyes, 

She softly said, "Oh, I do, too!" 

 A glory fell on each young brow, 

As, through an ever-widening rift 

Between the days of Then and Now, 

Shone promise of Life's fairest gift.