contents | previous | next
VIOLETS. THE HUMBLE BEE. THE GRASSHOPPER. THE SQUIRREL. THE GLOW-WORM. 80 81 EMILY. Brother, my dear brother, here is only pleasant news for us to-day; in the first place—in Mamma's book there are several little poems which she had forgotten—and in the next, my aunt writes to say that she will be here in a fortnight with Edward, Fanny, and Ella—and then after staying with us a few days, we are all going together to the sea-side for a month. GEORGE. Indeed that is pleasant news—Mother, I do not think that either Edward or I have any reason now to envy Mr. Scamperville. MRS. TALBOT. I trust, my dear boy, that you never will have any. GEORGE. 82 GEORGE. And yet I assure you he looks upon me, and I dare say would on Edward if he was here, with the utmost contempt—I met him this morning on horseback. He was smarter than ever, with leather breeches, boots, and a knowing coat, which he desired me to admire, as well as his horse, which his father, he said, had just purchased for him, that he might sport a figure and cut a dash at the famous races which begin this morning. He had two servants with him, with whom he had been betting, he said, on the horses that were to run. He was so good as to pity me extremely for not being able to go—and said, if he had known it time enough, he would have lent me his old poney. MRS. TALBOT. And could you, George, hear all this without a wish to see this splendid show?—Have buckskin breeches, fashionable boots, and a knowing coat, no charms in your imagination? GEORGE. Indeed, Mother, I have been
83 and am very happy without all these.—I have never been taught to number them among my wants, and my not possessing them does not give me any pain. MRS. TALBOT. What? not tho' you are thought a quiz, and a coddle, and a humdrum fellow, by these bucks, Mr. Scamperville, and his friends. GEORGE. No, Mother, I must care more about them than I now do, before I shall be concerned at what they say of me; but if they are impertinent to me, it will be another affair. MRS. TALBOT. I trust you will always have that proper degree of spirit, my George, which you now possess; and since you do not think fate has used you immeasurably ill, tho' you find yourself, this sultry morning of July, sitting with me and Emily, instead of scampering with all sorts of people, who appear half mad, to the races, amidst clouds of dust, and confused noises, tell me that will most
84 amuse you, till wedine?—afterwards I have a project to go and regale on wood strawberries and cream at the dairy farm, on the edge of the forest, or rather to take out our repast and eat it under an old beech tree, and fancy ourselves like the banished duke and his fellows, in George's favorite play of "As you like it." EMILY. It will be delightful indeed, my dear Mamma!—I shall only be sorry that Edward and Ella, and my cousin Fanny, cannot be with us. MRS. TALBOT. When they come, we shall contrive another party of the same sort, perhaps; at present we must be as happy as we can be by ourselves, unless indeed you would like to have the Miss Mincings, or Miss Brockly, invited to go with us. EMILY. O no, Mamma—indeed I had rather not—the Miss Mincings are so prim, and make such a fuss about their frocks and their shoes, and their bonnets—
85 and the maid that waits upon them cries every moment, Miss Maria, you will spoil your new bonnet—Miss Jane, you will tear your best japan muslin—that the poor girls have no peace, and dare not play and amuse themselves. So as they are taught to think these frocks and bonnets are the things of the greatest consequence, they are always telling me what this cost, and that cost, and asking me if what I wear cost as much—and indeed, Mamma, I am tired so with them, that I am very glad when they are gone. MRS. TALBOT. But Miss Brockly—she is willing enough to play, I am sure? EMILY. And willing enough to eat.—When I go to see her, there is always such a quantity of cakes and fruit, that I wonder those who eat them are not sick, and if she comes here, she is never satisfied, unless there is something nice, as she calls it, to eat; and you know she devoured all the preserved cherries, and every thing that
86 you ordered Margaret to let us have, when she was here last. MRS. TALBOT. She is very piggishly brought up, indeed—but to live well, as it is called, is the taste of that family, and the child sees nothing else, and hears nothing else, than the gluttonous delights of eating, from the hour she rises till she goes to bed. EMILY. Then you know, Mamma, there is not much pleasure with these Miss Mincings. MRS. TALBOT. Nor with Miss Brockly, to be sure, Emily, when strawberries and cream are in question. EMILY. Oh, Mamma, you know very well, it is not on that account, but I am happier with only you and my brother; and as to George, he don't like any of those little girls at all. MRS. TALBOT. But George is often too severe in his judgment—I am afraid he will become satirical and cynical as he
87 grows older, and that will not do, perhaps, for a boy who is to make his way in the world. EMILY. But, Mamma, you would have him always speak the truth, would you not, and never say to any one what he does not think? MRS. TALBOT. Certainly—a strict adherence to truth is the basis of every other good quality, and without it no virtue or goodness can exist. But while truth should be our first principle, there is no occasion to tell people with whom we have nothing to do, that we contemn and despise them. George has such good qualities, and is in some respects so much superior to most other boys, that I sometimes apprehend his very excellencies will produce faults, and that the consciousness of uncommon understanding will make him proud and fastidious.—But I cannot imagine where he is gone to all this time. EMILY. 88 EMILY. He is coming at this moment across the garden. MRS. TALBOT. Why George! you suddenly disappeared—we were going to examine further into the contents of this book, in which your aunt and I have entered several little poems that we either collected or wrote some years ago, as well as others of later date. GEORGE. I would not have absented myself, my dear Mother, but I went down to Master Headham's, whom I met in the garden. He came to ask the gardener for some herbs, to make what the poor man told me was to be a fermentation for his grandson's leg. MRS. TALBOT. He means fomentation, but what is the matter with it then? GEORGE. Two fine gentlemen, he says, going to see the races, desperate grand folks to be sure, drove along so fast in their chai, with two horses, that the poor lad who was running to open a gate for them was knocked down, and so hurt with
89 the wheel, that at first he thought his leg was broke; but the Doctor, who happened luckily enough to be visiting a poor woman in the village, says it is only sadly bruised, tho' the skin is torn off from his knee to his foot; so I thought I would go down to see the boy, who, poor fellow, is in great pain, but he does not want for any thing just now. The old man and woman are in sad trouble about him, for he was an industrious boy, and just beginning to be an help to them; but they say they should not have minded the misfortune so much, as their child's leg is not broke, if these very grand gentlemen, though they saw him fall, and knew he was very much hurt, had not sworn at him most terribly, struck at him with a whip, and then drove away faster than ever. MRS. TALBOT. And does nobody know who they are? GEORGE. They are strangers, I believe, on a visit at Sir Harry's.—Their servants, who came along afterwards, said they
90 would have served the little rascal right, if they had killed him on the spot, for what business had he in the way? But farmer Dewsberry, who saw the whole business, declared, that the horses were so violent, and unmanageable, that one of them flew out of the road and knocked the poor boy down, and it was impossible for him to get out of the way before the wheel nearly tore his leg off. MRS. TALBOT. And it is thus, that young men, who aspire to be thought spirited and fashionable, trifle with the lives of others, while they hazard their own?—But what an aggravation, thus to add cruelty to fool-hardiness!—Go, my dear, and send Margaret down to the cottage of these poor old people—or perhaps you would like to go yourself. GEORGE. Yes, I shall go quicker. MRS. TALBOT. Give them this piece of money.—Tell them they shall not be under the necessity of applying to the parish to pay the apothecary, as I dare say that is
91 one of their apprehensions; but we will take care of that; and in my walk this evening I will call upon them. GEORGE. Poor creatures! that will comfort them—but indeed, Mother, I think some one ought to apply to the men who did this mischief, to make poor Jack some amends. MRS. TALBOT. If they do not break their own necks before night, which is highly probable, and which would not be half so great a loss to society as that of one honest labourer, who supports his children with difficulty by the utmost exertion of his strength; they will probably forget after a nine o'clock dinner, and sitting up the rest of the night at the gaming-table, that such an accident happened. Or if they could be brought to remember it, they are much more likely to resent an application to their justice and humanity, than to listen to it. So we will do for poor Jack as well as we can; and while you hasten to tell him so , Emily and I
92 will only read such of our new found collection as you have before seen; for some, I know, are familiar to you. EMILY. Mamma, what is the reason that such men as these, that drove over the poor boy, are so cruel and hard-hearted? Do they think that poor people have not as much feelings as they have? MRS. TALBOT. They never thing about poor people at all. They were probably brought up with every luxury about them, and how others fared they were never taught to consider. Self gratification is their governing principle, and while they fly about from one place to another in search of pleasure, the wants and woes of the humble society, without whose toil these flashing men could not exist, are wholly overlooked. I do not mean however to say, that it is the case with all young men of fortune; but I fear there are too many of this unfeeling disposition, and that it is a disposition that is rather
93 gaining ground. However, since we can do but little, Emily, to amend them, let us endeavour to correct our own faults, and we shall seldom want employment, if we candidly examine ourselves. And now while George is gone to poor Jack, let us read these two little poems on two favourite early flowers. The first I wrote, as I now recollect, when, after having been some time in town, I went in Spring to pass a few days at a place, where in my early years I had lived frequently for two or three months at a time, with some young people of nearly my own age. We had made gardens of our own, as you and your brothers and sisters do now, and planted several flowers. After a long absence, I once more revisited the spot; it had been converted into a yard to dry the household linen; yet among the grass with which our former parterres was now covered, and notwithstanding the frequent inroads of pattens and bucking baskets, a few of our
94 former favourites raised their heads here and there among the posts and lines. The yellow hellebore and the snow-drop were the most remarkable. The latter of these, you know, is indigenous in this country, and often grows spontaneously on the edges of fields and in extensive orchards, whitening the ground with its elegant drooping blossom. It is supposed that the roots, if boiled and treated like those of the orchis of which saloop is made, would be equally nutritious; but at present its greatest merit seems to be in its delicate white petals, those within being elegantly veined with green; and its early appearance as the advanced guard, if I may use a military expression, of the loveliest productions of nature, as an announcing, though yet at a distance, the approach of the loveliest season of the year. Two lines of Mrs. Barbauld's on this flower are so beautiful, that they cannot be too often quoted—
95
MRS. 96 MRS. TALBOT. The next, which is also addressed to a flower, is not altogether my own. Indeed some of the lines are entirely taken from a little poem, I believe written by Mr. Gifford, and I adapted them to my purpose, which was for your sister to learn; but I left the book in town, and forgot that some of these were written in it, till George's taste for rhyme, and the facility with which you both learn any thing written in measure, made me recollect it was among the last papers and manuscripts that were sent me from thence.
97 Ah stay awhile, till warmer showers MRS. TALBOT. And here comes your brother from his charitable mission. GEORGE. The boy is easier, Mother, and the poor old people, comforted by your kindness, have ceased to lament themselves. Some of the neighbors have offered to drive up their cow, and do such things as the old man used to be assisted in by his grandson. MRS. TALBOT. How little do those who live in luxury, whose every want is provided for and every wish prevented, know or comprehend of the difficulties
98 with which the poor patiently contend, only to be enabled to live from day to day. It is almost impossible for one who has always lived in splendid houses, moved from place to place in convenient carriages, and been constantly pampered with delicacies, till their appetites are even jaded, to put themselves in the place of a fellow being, who rises from his flock bed before the sun, to work all day, and has nothing perhaps but bread for himself and his children, and not always enough of that. It is not possible for the former of these men to conceive, of what importance a shilling is to the latter; and how happy the industrious poor man would think himself, to receive in the course of an whole year as much as is, in a single journey of whim, expended by the idle rich one, who perhaps yawns all the way, and when he arrives at the place he has hurried to reach, wonders why he came at all, and scampers back again. And yet so little real happiness does this unmeaning
99 waste of money and time, bring to those who practise it, that if the fact could be ascertained, I am very sure the infirm labourer Thomas Hardham, who is old and lame, and poor, and who has lost his children, and met with a great many misfortunes; is a much happier being, than those unthinking and unfeeling men who were the occasion of his present misfortune. GEORGE. I wish though they could be persuaded to make him some amends for it; and I wish I was of an age to say to them that it is only their duty. MRS. TALBOT. Your endeavours would be in vain at any age, I believe. But since we have now done all that our means allow to mitigate a misfortune we could not prevent, let us return to our beloved natural history. There we meet with nothing to give us pain, but the more we study it, the more we are taught the truth of the observation so simply but justly expressed by Goldsmith—"How much
100 kinder in God to his creatures then they are to each other!"—Have you remarked nothing new, George, in your walks these days? GEORGE. Yes—I sat down on a dry bank behind Hardham's cottage garden, while I waited to hear what Mr. Grant, the Apothecary, who called upon Jack a second time, thought of him. And as I remained there, I saw two of those large bees, which we call humble bees, go into a small hole in the ground. They seemed to unload themselves just as the honey bees do; for one of them came out again while I remained there, without that yellow meally substance on his thighs which I saw when he went in, and which I suppose is the material with which the cells are made; and therefore I thought these humble bees might have in some hollow place in the bank, a sort of hive or store, and that they were wise to hide it from the robbery of man. Have they any such contrivance? MRS. 101 MRS. TALBOT. I think there are several sorts of what we call humble bees. The apis terrestris or the earth bee, and the apis nemorum or wood bee, and some others; but those two are, I believe, the commonest sorts, and the first is what you saw go into his subterraneous house. As they appear as busy as the common honey bee, and to collect the nectar and the pollen of flowers in the same manner, it is probable that their habits are nearly the same; yet I never recollect having heard that their hoards of honey had been discovered in digging into banks, or those places which they are known to frequent. And it was on the supposition that they were not equally provident with their congeners the honey bee, that, as a lesson of industry and forecast, the verses were composed which I am going to repeat. They were written for a little girl, who had expressed great curiosity on this subject. After all, however, it is probable that my moral is given at the expence of
102 the humble bee's character, which is perhaps very unjustly defamed.
103 But you, no doubt, have wisely thought, 104 And the hard season braving there, And now to dinner, and then we will set out on our forest walk. MRS. TALBOT. Now, after our repast, we will ramble into the forest.—There is no scene more pleasing to me than these extensive woods, and none that are less frequently enjoyed in England. GEORGE. If he had not been recorded as a robber, as well as an inhabitant of the woods, I have often thought, Mother, that I should have liked to have lived
105 with Robin Hood, and his followers, in Sherwood forest. MRS. TALBOT. And I remember, George, when I was a girl, having an equal delight in wandering about woods and copses, but particularly among those beautiful beech woods, that shade some of the South Downs, where they descend to the weald.—And as I grew older, and became acquainted with the poets, I delighted to imagine myself engaged with a party of young friends, to act Milton's Masque of Comus, in a great wood that was not far from my then residence. EMILY. But you never did so, Mamma? MRS. TALBOT. No—I should not have been allowed to have undertaken a part in any theatrical performance. It was merely one of those visions, in which I sometimes indulged myself.—At other times I used to fancy I could meet in those woods, with some of the Knights and Damsels that Spencer tells us of, in the Fairy Queen. GEORGE. 106 GEORGE. Did you really believe then, that such persons existed? MRS. TALBOT. No—I certainly knew they did not, yet a great deal of desultory reading, and a lively imagination, without having any friend who knew how to direct either the one or the other, made me in my early youth extremely romantic. But tho' all these fairy visions have long since disappeared, a woody scene has still a thousand charms for me—I love to frequent it in all seasons of the year, and especially if it be of such an extent as this where we now are. GEORGE. The forests in France and Germany are much larger than ours? MRS. TALBOT. Beyond comparison.—The forest of Orleans covered many leagues, and is still very extensive, though not of its former magnitude.—There are other forests in France of immense extent—tho' many, and especially those that were appropriated to the amusement of the King and Princes of the blood, and no
107 bility, as hunting grounds, are much lessened since the revolution. And as the people of France use no other fuel then wood, and very little care is taken to secure a succession by carefully planting and preserving trees, the fuel becomes every year scarcer, and has long been at an extravagant price in France; where the natives are prepossessed with a notion that coal is unwholesome.—The woods of Germany, many of which are oak, cover immense portions of the country, and feed very great droves of swine. But even these, and the pine forests of Sweden, Russia, and Norway, are described as being inferior in extent and magnificence to the stupendous forests of America, which, notwithstanding the considerable tracts that have been cleared by the settlers from Europe, still cover unmeasured extents of country, and consist of trees, which in size, as well as beauty, greatly exceed all we have any idea of in England.—You have seen, I think, a
108 picture, or at least a print of an African forest, where the lion, the leopard, and tyger, prowl under trees that seem to be loaded with tropical fruits, but which I should think with such accomplishments, would afford little temptation.GEORGE. And there were snakes, I remember. MRS. TALBOT. Snakes of great size are found in both Africa, and America.—In the latter you know is the formidable rattle-snake, whose bite is so fatal—but they do not attack man, unless trod upon, or otherwise provoked; when they move, the horny rings in their tails, falling over each other, makes a kind of tinkling sound, which gives notice of their approach; but the rattle-snake is, you know, said to possess the power of fascination; so that if a bird, a mouse, or squirrel, once sees the creatures fix his eyes upon it, the wretched animal, perfectly conscious of the fatal attraction, cannot escape, but as if bewitched, it is impelled to approach its
109 enemy, and it comes nearer and nearer, still uttering cries of distress and terror, till the jaws of the monster close upon it. It has sometimes seemed to me, that there are people exactly in the case of the animal, thus fascinated by the rattle-snake. How often does one see that a fatal impulse, contrary to reason and common sense, seems in despite of both to drag away some unhappy person to their destruction; and tho' they are told, and really feel themselves, that they are plunging into ruin, yet nothing can stop their headlong course till that ruin overwhelms them. GEORGE. But is it true that the rattle-snake has this power? MRS. TALBOT. It has been averred so repeatedly, that notwithstanding travellers are a little too apt to exceed, or misrepresent the truth in their relations, one must believe it to be true; and the ancient fable of the basilisk that killed with its eyes, seems to have originated in an opinion
110 that an animal possessing this power actually existed. EMILY. Dear! how much I should be terrified, Mamma, if we were to hear in this wood a noise resembling that which the rattle-snake makes. GEORGE. But that, you know, Emily, is impossible, for there are no rattle-snakes in England, and no snakes here hurt at all. EMILY. I am sure I would not trust them though, for I saw a frightful one the other day, just by the cucumber bed; and I ran away as fast as I possibly could. MRS. TALBOT. And what did the snake do? EMILY. It ran away too, I believe, for I looked behind me, being rather afraid it would have pursued me; but I saw it making its way towards the hot beds, quicker than I ran to the house. The gardener said, when I told him how it had frightened me, that he had killed
111 another great snake there the day before, and found a great many of their eggs. MRS. TALBOT. It is rather prejudice against them from their ugliness, than any real injury they do, that causes these reptiles to be so generally persecuted; and I much doubt whether they are not extremely useful in destroying insects, that would otherwise prey on the gardener's cucumbers, or injure their roots. Vipers are dangerous; and I once saw an instance of a boy being severely bitten by them, when, believing there were a nest of young birds in a hollow tree, he thrust his hand among a family of vipers. His hand and arm were so dreadfully swelled, that we were obliged to send for an apothecary, and it was some time before the boy recovered. In general, however, the snakes of this country are quite harmless; and even in India, where the poison of reptiles and insects, as well as of plants, is exalted, and rendered more powerful by the heat of the sun, there are some creatures
112 of this species who are object of veneration to the simple natives. In a book of Poems on various subjects, I found not long ago a few very pretty lines, which I believe I can remember. It was the petition of an Indian girl to an adder, to stay while she copied the beautiful colours of his skin to weave a fillet for her lover, and is said to have been written in the year 1740, by an eminent literary character then at Winchester school, which made me imagine it might probably be Dr. Warton. Stay, stay, thou lovely fearful snake, EMILY. 113 EMILY. Indeed the Indian girl should not choose a pattern for me, if she preferred the colours of a snake to those of beautiful flowers, or to the colours of the butterflies. But pray, Mamma, tell me-what is that loud shrill noise? I often used to hear it last Summer, but never when I happened to be walking with you; and I could not describe it so as to get any one to tell me what creature made it.—Listen, I hear it now! MRS. TALBOT. You mean the chirping or song of the field cricket—or perhaps of some of the various sorts of grasshoppers that now are heard in many places, forming but a poor substitute, however, for the birds, many of which soon after Midsummer, cease to sing. EMILY. Yet I like to hear those crickets and grasshoppers, the sound is so Summerish, if I may use the expression. GEORGE. There is another sort too, a great deal larger then either field crickets or grasshoppers, that make a sort of shrill
114 noise, of a night; the gardener called it the fen cricket, or the churr worm, and said it did a great deal of mischief in the grass down by the side of the water. But I saw no great harm it could do; for one that I observed appeared to be a very innocent and helpless creature, and to get into its hole in the grass again as soon as it could. MRS. TALBOT. It is the Talpo Grillus, usually called the mole cricket. The noise made by that insect is, I think, particularly pleasant of an evening, heard as it usually is in solitary and remote places near water, where it inhabits: the grasshopper is a dweller among meadows, and is of the same species as the cicada, those little creatures which, when you are walking in the grass, seem to fly some yards before you. Of this race are the insects called cicala, in Italy and other warm countries, whose chirping is at some seasons so loud, as to be very annoying, and who are so voracious as often to strip the shrubs and trees of their
115 leaves at a very early period of the Italian Summer. To this family the grilli and cicada, also belongs the locust; which has covered whole countries as with a cloud, and carried famine and desolation with it wherever their terrific hosts have settled, eating up every green leaf and blade of grass, and even the thatch of the houses, and every vegetable substance they alighted upon. But fortunately they never find their way to these northern regions.—And see, George, here is another insect, which in this country is only of very trifling inconvenience to the husbandman or the gardener, but in some parts of the world is so destructive, as to inflict ruin on those whose property it seizes upon—I mean the ant. Look at that brown hillock under the trees—it seems all alive and in motion. It is formed by the horse or wood ant, one of the largest of a numerous species, some of which are as industrious, though less useful than bees. But in the West Indies
116 such immense swarms of the black ant have sometimes appeared, that the ground for many miles seemed to move: they too devour every thing in their way, eating not only vegetable but animal substances; and they are said sometimes to have destroyed the helpless negro children, whom their unfortunate mothers have left on the ground while they worked.—But we have wandered from our former subject. I meant, George, to have asked, if you do not recollect Cowley's translation of Anaceron's Grasshopper, which, as I thought him too much of an Epicurean to be respectable, I altered a little before you learned it. GEORGE. I am not sure that I remember it, but I will try.
117 For Nature waits upon thee still, EMILY. But, Mamma, I want to know what use these creatures are of; for both the insects we have been talking of seem in some places to do a great deal of harm, and I don't understand that they do any good. MRS. TALBOT. Certainly they are of use, for they afford food to a great number
118 of birds, besides other purposes which they are doubtless created to answer, tho' we do not immediately perceive those purposes. Of these little creatures just before us, who are so busy, some in carrying those straws and others white substances about, the first are providing a place for the reception and security of the young, while some are carrying the young themselves; but their toil will probably be rendered in a great degree useless; for the pheasants, with which these woods abound, find in these insects a principal article of their food, and devour great quantities whenever they can meet with them. The black game, and all other fowls of that sort, as well as many smaller birds, also eat them; and the good housewifes send children into the woods to collect the pupa, or what we usually call eggs of ants, for their young turkies and Guinea fowl. GEORGE. And so every animals preys upon some inferior animal. MRS. 119 MRS. TALBOT. And man upon them all. GEORGE. But I should think, Mother, that as far as relates to pheasants, and others of those wild birds, which are called game, some other creatures go more than halves with man. Foxes and wild cats live in these woods, and I dare say kill great numbers of the pheasants and hares. MRS. TALBOT. And there are weasels, polecats, and other creatures of that race, who also put in their claim. The squirrel alone, of all the quadrupeds that inhabit these wild scenes, seems to be the least at enmity with other creatures. GEORGE. And he is rewarded, I think, by being less persecuted. MRS. TALBOT. And yet he is not without his troubles: the wild cat and martin cat can reach his airy abode, and destroy his infant family; and man, though the squirrel cannot be considered as fit for food, pursues and destroys him in mere
120 wantonness, using a short stick loaded at each end, which thrown with great force among the boughs, often brings these pretty lively creatures bleeding to the ground. Sometimes too an idle sportsman, who has perhaps been disappointed of his game, fires his gun among them, and brings two or three down, maimed or dead, from their happy domicile above him. EMILY. How extremely barbarous!—If I had brothers who were so cruel out of mere wantonness, I am sure I could not love them. I should think they would torment me just the same if they could. GEORGE. Well but, Emily, you don't consider, that if none of the creatures we see about us were ever to be destroyed, we should ourselves be devoured by them, and even the least of them might do a great deal of mischief. EMILY. Yes, but it is one thing to kill them for food or in defence of our property, and another, you know, Mamma, to kill them or make them suffer in
121 sport. Remember the lines in Cowper which we wrote out. MRS. TALBOT. Well, suppose, since there is reason here on both sides, which very rarely happens in an argument, that we add to our reason a little rhyme, and try what we can say of the squirrel in verse, as we walk home; for it grows late.
122 The cone beset with many a scale, 123 And thus the man of mental worth EMILY. Oh! lovely little squirrel—I shall always delight to see them, and to recollect these verses. MRS. TALBOT. But we have not yet reckoned up all the enemies of our squirrel. Kites and hawks, that live on the edges of these great woods, frequently strike them. GEORGE. But small birds are the chief pursuit, I believe, of birds of prey. MRS. TALBOT. Yes, for they can more conveniently get at them. Scug does not very willingly expose himself in the open day far from his trees. He rather avoids the sun, and sports and amuses himself in the fine moon-light nights of Summer; when the squirrels are seen darting about after each other, down this tree and up
124 that, and squeaking in a peculiar note of satisfaction. EMILY. If I had a place where they could live, I would not let any body disturb them; and as for those odious kites and hawks, I would have them shot. MRS. TALBOT. And yet, Emily, those kites and hawks have as much right to enjoy the life God has given them as your favourite squirrel—or as any of the other inhabitants of this wood, or any other place. EMILY. Perhaps so, Mamma; but you know man is allowed to kill all creatures that do him harm. MRS. TALBOT. Now there, on the trunk of that white poplar, there is a creature which does a great deal of harm, but which is so beautiful, that you would hardly consent to its being shot. EMILY. What is it? I see only two little, very little birds, not so big as mice, clinging to the trees. MRS. TALBOT. No, it is those
125 minute birds, which are vulgarly called tree creepers, that I mean, but a larger bird—It is gone!—I speak, however, of the woodpecker, or yaffil. GEORGE. Yes, I know—the bird that makes the noise I love so much to hear, like laughing. MRS. TALBOT. Exactly as if he was heartily enjoying some excellent joke; but notwithstanding his gaiety and his splendid plumage, which excells that of most British birds, he is a mischievous fellow. For if in any tree he discovers the least hole, he bores it with his strong bill, till he makes it big enough sometimes to receive his whole family; and while he and his feathered companion are at that employment, you may hear their noise resounding to a great distance thro' the woods; but it does great mischief to the tree, and occasions it to rot. The food of this race of birds is insects, which harbour in the rugged or decayed bark; and these they get out of their hiding places by means of the
126 long slender tongue which they are furnished with—but we must hasten, or we shall be benighted. GEORGE. Let us go down the way that Emily calls her glow-worm walk. MRS. TALBOT. Most willingly.—They will not be visible much longer, those shining insects which Emily so much admires. But see! there are two or three—Let us try if we cannot find something to say of them more flattering to Emily's partiality, than the sonnet which described their appearance by day-light.
127 Not less dost thou the night's dark hour adorn, EMILY. O Mamma!—those verses are the prettiest we have heard yet, and a great deal less mortifying to my favorite insects, which I like to fancy the fairies flambeaux, such as you know as they are called in the song I learned when I was a very little girl; where the Fairy tells of the table made of a mushroom, and of the food it was covered with; and two lines, you know, are, And when the moon doth hide her head, MRS. TALBOT. And now it must do us that good office, for we have loitered
128 till the sun is quite gone. And we must be early risers to-morrow; for perhaps we may hear by the post that your aunt, and Edward and Ella, and Fanny expects us to meet them. Then we may parody a line of Milton, and say, To-morrow for fresh walks, and verses new!CON- |
