Classic Poem

Old story books! old story books! we owe ye much, old friends,
Bright-colored threads in Memory's warp, of which Death holds the ends.
Who can forget ye? — who can spurn the ministers of joy
That waited on the lisping girl and petticoated boy?
I know that ye could win my heart when every bribe or threat
Failed to allay my stamping rage, or break my sullen pet:
A " promised story " was enough — I turned with eager smile,
To learn about the naughty " pig that would not mount the stile. "

There was a spot in days of yore whereon I used to stand,
With mighty question in my head and penny in my hand;
Where motley sweets and crinkled cakes made up a goodly show,
And " story books " upon a string, appeared in brilliant row.
What should I have? the peppermint was incense in my nose,
But I had heard of " hero Jack " who slew his giant foes:
My lonely coin was balanced long before the tempting stall,
'Twixt book and bull's eye, but, forsooth! " Jack " got it after all.

Talk of your " vellum, gold embossed, " " morocco, " " roan, " and " calf, "
The blue and yellow wraps of old were prettier by half:
And as to pictures! well we know that never one was made
Like that where " Bluebeard " swings aloft his wife-destroying blade.
" Hume's England! " — pshaw! what history of battles, states and men
Can vie with Memoirs " all about sweet little Jenny Wren? "
And what are all the wonders that e'er struck a nation dumb,
To those recorded as performed by " Master Thomas Thumb? "

" Miss Riding Hood, " poor luckless child! my heart grew big with dread,
When the grim " wolf, " in grandmamma's best bonnet, showed his head;
I shuddered when, in innocence, she meekly peeped beneath,
And made remarks about " great eyes, " and wondered at " great teeth. "
And then the " House that Jack built, " and the " Beanstalk Jack cut down, "
And " Jack's eleven brothers, " on their travels of renown;
And " Jack, " whose cracked and plastered head insured him lyric fame,
These, these, methinks, make " vulgar Jack " a rather classic name.

Fair " Valentine, " I loved him well; but, better still the bear
That hugged his brother in her arms with tenderness and care.
I lingered spell-bound o'er the page, though even-tide wore late,
And left my supper all untouched to fathom " Orson's " fate.
Then " Robin with his merry men, " a noble band were they,
We'll never see the like again, go hunting where we may.
In Lincoln garb, with bow and barb, rapt Fancy bore me on,
Through Sherwood's dewy forest-paths, close after " Little John. "

" Miss Cinderella " and her " shoe " kept long their reigning powers,
Till harder words and longer themes beguiled my flying hours;
And " Sinbad, " wondrous sailor he, allured me on his track,
And set me shouting when he flung the old man from his back.
And oh! that tale — the matchless tale, that made me dream at night
Of " Crusoe's " shaggy robe of fur, and " Friday's " death-spurred flight;
Nay, still I read it, and again, in sleeping visions, see
The savage dancers on the sand — the raft upon the sea.

Old story books! old story books! I doubt if " Reason's Feast "
Provides a dish that pleases more than " Beauty and the Beast; "
I doubt if all the Ledger-leaves that bear a sterling sum,
Yield happiness like those that told of " Master Horner's plum. "
Old story books! old story books! I never pass ye by
Without a sort of furtive glance — right loving, though 'tis sly;
And fair suspicion may arise — that yet my spirit grieves
For dear " Old Mother Hubbard's Dog " and " Ali Baba's Thieves. "