The Zankiwank and The Bletherwitch Part 5

"And now," said t.i.tania, waving her wand and calling the Flowers and Birds to her Court, "let the Jackdaw sing his well-known War Song."

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"If you please, your majesty, I have left the music at home and forgotten the words," pleaded the Jackdaw.

"Very well, then sing it without either or you shall not have a new coat until the Spring."

So the Jackdaw stepped forth and sang as below, while the Rook irreverently cleared his throat above for his friend, and cried "Caw!

Caw!"

THE JACKDAW'S JEST.

If peaches grew on apple trees, And frogs were made of gla.s.s; And bulls and cows were turned to bees, And rooks were made of gra.s.s; If boys and girls were made of figs, If figs were made of dates, Upon the sands they'd dance like grigs With bald and oval pates.

If mortals had got proper sense And were not quite so mad; Their mood would make them more intense, To make each other glad: If only they would understand The things that no one knows, They'd live like fairies in the land, And never come to blows.

"That's a very nice War Song--it's so peaceful and soothing," spake the Queen. "And now call the Poets from Freeland. This is the time for them to renew their licences, though I greatly fear that they have been taking so many liberties of late that any licence I can give them will prove superfluous."

"Superfluous! Superfluous! That _is_ a good word," muttered the Zankiw.a.n.k. "I wonder what it means?" Whereupon he went and asked Robin Goodfellow and all the other Fairies, but as n.o.body knew, it did not matter, and the Poets arriving at that moment he thought of a number and sat on a toadstool.

Maude recognised several of the Poets who came to have their licences renewed--she had heard of "poetic licence" before, but never dreamed that one had to get the unwritten freedom from Fairyland. But so it was.

Several of the Poets seemed to be exorbitant in their demands, and wanted to make their poems all licence, but this t.i.tania would not consent to, so they went away singing, all in tune too, a little piece that Robin Goodfellow said was a Rondel:--

Life is but a mingled song, Sung in divers keys; Sweet and tender, brave and strong, As the heart agrees.

Naught but love each maid will please When emotions throng; Life is but a mingled song, Sung in divers keys.

Youth and age nor deem it wrong, Sing with joyous ease, That your days you may prolong Freed from Care's decrees.

Life is but a mingled song Sung in divers keys.

So on their way they went rejoicing--saying pretty things to the fairies, the flowers and the birds, for they are their best friends you know, and they love all Nature with a vast and all-embracing, all-enduring love.

One singer as he went along chanted half-sadly:--

To tell of other's joys the poet sings; To tell of Love, its sweets and eke its pain; The tenderest songs his magic fancy strings, Of Love, perchance, that he may never gain.

Hearts may not break and pa.s.sion may be weak, But O the grief of Love that dare never speak!

A light-hearted bard then took up the cue and carolled these lines:--

There's so much prose in life that now and then, A tender song of pity stirs the heart, A simple lay of love from fevered pen, Makes in some soul the unshed tear-drops start.

Sing, poets! sing for aye your sweetest strain, For life without its poetry were vain!

Then they all sang together a song of May, although Queen t.i.tania had declared that it was Midsummer. Perhaps her Midsummer lasts all the year round:--

When Winter's gone to rest, And Spring is our dear guest; The Merry May, at break of day, Comes in gay garlands drest.

The brightest smiles she brings-- Of sweetest hopes she sings And trips a-pace with dainty grace And lightest fairy wings.

Joy is the song all Nature sighs, Love is the light in maidens' eyes, May is love alway: The budding branch and nodding tree Join in the revels and bow with glee To greet the Virgin May.

While songsters choose and mate, And woo their brides in state, The youth and maid stroll through the glade The birds to emulate!

Then comes the Queen of May, To hold her court and sway, While gallant blades salute the maids, And whisper secrets gay.

Love is the song all Nature sighs, While peace gleams in each maiden's eyes, Youth is for joy alway!

The laughing rose and lily fair Their fragrance shed upon the air, As though 'twere ever May.

As the Poets went on their happy way, the last one to depart turned to where Maude was standing, and though he could not possibly see her, said gently:--

O grant you, little maiden, your thoughts be aye sincere, Your dreams turn into actions, Your pleasures know no sear: Your life be flowers and sunshine, Your days be free from tear.

How happy it made her! And what beautiful things these poets always thought of and said!

"Now, Peaseblossom and Mustard Seed, you may sing that little song that I made for you when we were floating up near the Moon, and then we shall soon have to depart as we have so many calls to make this Midsummer Night."

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Neither Willie nor Maude could understand how it could be Midsummer Night, because Midsummer Day was such a long way off--quite six weeks, for this was only yet the month of May. But they did not say anything, because Robin Goodfellow was looking at them, and they knew they were invisible, because they could not even feel themselves--which is a curious sensation, when you come to think of it.

Now, this is the song that Peaseblossom and Mustard Seed sang together in unison--the fairies, led by Robin Good fellow, joining in the chorus:--

WILL YOU WALK INTO THE GARDEN.

Will you walk into the garden?

Said the Poppy to the Rose, Your tender heart don't harden,-- Do not elevate your nose.

For the Gilly-flower has sent us All because of your perfume, And the Box a case has lent us, To make a little room.

So Rosey! Rosey! sweet little posy Come to our garden fete, And our little c.o.c.k-roaches will lend you their coaches, So that you mayn't be late.

All the Waterblinks are waiting, Just beneath the Dogwood's shade; While the Teazle's loudly prating To the Madder's little maid!

The old Cranberry grows tartish All about a Goosefoot Corn, But the Primrose, dressed quite smartish, Will explain it's but a thorn.

So Rosey! Rosey! sweet little posy Come to our garden fete; Our naughty young nettles shall be on their fettles, All stinging things to bate.

Now for tea there's Perrywinkles And some b.u.t.terwort and Sedge, House-leeks and Bird's-nest-binkles, With some Sundew from the hedge, There is Sorrel, Balsam, Mallow, Some Milk Wort and Mare's Tail too, With some Borage and some Sallow, Figworts and Violets blue.

So Rosey! Rosey! sweet little posy, Come to our garden fete, And the Iris and Crocus shall sing us and joke us Some humorous things sedate.

"That's all very well," exclaimed the Zankiw.a.n.k. "Roses are always delightful, especially the Cabbage Roses, because you can eat them for breakfast, but every rose has its drawback.... Ho! and it's thorn," he added, dancing with pain, for at that moment several rose bushes he was pa.s.sing by gave him a good p.r.i.c.king.

"Ah!" said Queen t.i.tania, "that is not the way to look at the beautiful things of life. It is because the thorns have roses that we should be thankful, and not find fault because the roses have thorns."

"That is a sentiment that I can endorse--it is a true bill, and almost as good as one of my own," replied Robin Goodfellow saucily; "and now let us wander through the Florange grove and gather some Moranges and Lemons."

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Neither Maude nor Willie had heard of Floranges or Moranges, and wondered what sort of fruit they could be, when their attention was drawn once more to Queen t.i.tania and her court of fairies, who were all seated beneath the greenwood tree eating puddings and pies that Mustard Seed and Peaseblossom and Cobweb were making for them, chanting, as they cooked the pastry by the fire of their own eloquence, this doggerel:--