Mother Goose for Grown Folks. Whitney Adeline Dutton Train

      "Hiccory, diccory, dock!

      The mouse ran up the clock.

      The clock struck one, and down she run:

      Hiccory, diccory, dock!"

      She had her simple nest in a safe and cun-

      ning place,

      Away down in the quiet of the deep, old-

      fashioned case.

      A little crevice nibbled out led forth into

      the world,

      And overhead, on busy wheels, the hours

      and minutes whirled.

      High up in mystic glooms of space was

      awful scenery

      Of wires, and weights, and springs, and all

      great Time's machinery;

      But she had nought to do with these; a

      blessed little mouse,

      Whose only care beneath the sun was just

      to keep her house.

      For this was all she knew, or could; with-

      out her, just the same

      The earth's great centre drew the weight;

      the pendulum went and came;

      And days were born, and grew, and died;

      and stroke by stroke were told

      The hours by which the world and men

      are ever growing old.

      It suddenly occurred to her,—it struck her

      all at once,—

      That living among things of power, her-

      self had been a dunce.

      "Somebody winds the clock!" she cried

      "Somebody comes and brings

      An iron finger that feels through and fum-

      bles at the springs;

      "And then it happens; then the buzz is

      stirred afar and near,

      And the hour sounds, and everywhere the

      great world stops to hear.

      I don't think, after all, it seems so hard a

      thing to do.

      I know the way—I might run up and

      make folks listen too."

      She sprang upon the leaden weight; but

      not the merest whit

      Did all her added gravity avail to hurry it.

      She clambered up the steady cord; it wav-

      ered not a hair.

      She got among the earnest wheels; they

      knew not she was there.

      She sat beside the silent bell; the patient

      hammer lay

      Waiting an unseen bidding for the word

      that it should say.

      Only a solemn whisper thrilled the cham-

      bers of the clock,

      And the mouse listened: "Hiccory! hie—

      diccory! die—dock!"

      Something was coming. She had hit the

      ripeness of the time;

      No tiny second was outreached by that ex-

      ultant climb;

      In no wise did the planet turn the faster to

      the sun;

      She only met the instant, but the great

      clock sounded—"One!"

      What then? Did she stand gloriously

      among those central things,

      Her eye upon the vibrant bell, her heel

      upon the springs?

      Was her soul grand in unison with that

      resounding chime,

      And her pulse-beat identical with the high

      pulse of Time?

      Ah, she was little! When the air first

      shattered with that shock,

      Down ran the mouse into her hole. "Hic,

      diccory! die—dock!"

      Too plain to be translated is the truth the

      tale would show,

      Small souls, in solemn upshot, had better

      wait below.

      "Little Bo-Peep

      Has lost her sheep,

      And does n't know where to find 'em;

      Let 'em alone,

      And they 'll come home,

      And bring their tails behind 'em."

      Hope beckoned Youth, and bade him keep,

      On Life's broad plain, his shining sheep,

      And while along the sward they came,

      He called them over, each by name;

      This one was Friendship,—that was Health;

      Another Love,—another Wealth;

      One, fat, full-fleeced, was Social Station;

      Another, stainless, Reputation;

      In truth, a goodly flock of sheep,—

      A goodly flock, but hard to keep.

      Youth laid him down beside a fountain;

      Hope spread his wings to scale a mountain;

      And, somehow, Youth fell fast asleep,

      And left his crook to tend the sheep:

      No wonder, as the legend says,

      They took to very crooked ways.

      He woke—to hear a distant bleating,—

      The faithless quadrupeds were fleeting!

      Wealth vanished first, with stealthy tread,

      Then Friendship followed—to be fed,—

      And foolish Love was after led;

      Fair Fame,—alas! some thievish scamp

      Had marked him with his own black stamp!

      And he, with Honor at his heels,

      Was out of sight across the fields.

      Health just hangs doubtful,—distant Hope

      Looks backward from the mountain slope,—

      And Youth himself—no longer Youth—

      Stands face to face with bitter Truth.

      Yet