That is the way they do things where the little boy lives. Would you like to live there? Perhaps not; yet he is a happy little boy, and he is learning the truth of the old saying,—
“Come when you’re called, do as you’re bid. Shut the door after you, and you’ll never be chid.”
(_A disquisition on the use of gunpowder, by Master Jack._)
WHEN they first invented gunpowder, They did most dreadful things with it; They blew up popes and parliaments, And emperors and kings with it.
They put on funny hats and boots, And skulked about in cellars, oh! With shaking shoes they laid a fuse, And blew it with the bellows, oh!
They wore great ruffs, the stupid muffs, (At least that’s my opinion) then; And said “What ho!” and “Sooth, ’tis so!” And called each other “minion!” then.
But now, the world has turned about Five hundred years and more, you see; And folks have learned a thing or two They did not know before, you see.
So nowadays the powder serves To give the boys a jolly day And try their Aunt Louisa’s nerves, And make a general holiday.
In open day we blaze away With popguns and with crackers, oh! With rockets bright we crown the night, (And some of them are whackers, oh!)
And “pop!” and “fizz!” and “bang!” and “whizz!” Sounds louder still and louder, oh! And that’s the way we use, to-day, The funny gunny-powder, oh!
“WHERE are you going, Miss Sophia?” asked Letty, looking over the gate.
“I am going to walk,” answered Miss Sophia. “Would you like to come with me, Letty?”
“Oh yes!” cried Letty, “I should like to go very much indeed! Only wait, please, while I get my bonnet!”
And Letty danced into the house, and danced out again with her brown poke bonnet over her sunny hair.
“Here I am, Miss Sophia!” she cried. “Now, where shall we go?”
“Down the lane!” said Miss Sophia, “and through the orchard into the fields. Perhaps we may find some strawberries.”
So away they went, the young lady walking demurely along, while the little girl frolicked and skipped about, now in front, now behind. It was pretty in the green lane. The ferns were soft and plumy, and the moss firm and springy under their feet. The trees bent down and talked to the ferns, and told them stories about the birds that were building in their branches; and the ferns had stories, too, about the black velvet mole who lived under their roots, and who had a star on the end of his nose.