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The Children's Book by  Horace E. Scudder
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Oh! what's the matter? what's the matter?

What is't that ails young Harry Gill,

That evermore his teeth they chatter,

Chatter, chatter, chatter still?

Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,

Good duffel gray, and flannel fine;

He has a blanket on his back,

And coats enough to smother nine.

In March, December, and in July,

'T is all the same with Harry Gill;

The neighbors tell, and tell you truly,

His teeth they chatter, chatter still.

At night, at morning, and at noon,

'T is all the same with Harry Gill;

Beneath the sun, beneath the moon,

His teeth they chatter, chatter still.

Young Harry was a lusty drover,

And who so stout of limb as he?

His cheeks were red as ruddy clover;

His voice was like the voice of three.

Old Goody Blake was old and poor;

Ill fed she was and thinly clad;

And any man who passed her door

Might see how poor a hut she had.

All day she spun in her poor dwelling:

And then her three hours' work at night,

Alas! 't was hardly worth the telling,

It would not pay for candle-light.

Remote from sheltered village green,

On a hill's northern side she dwelt,

Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean,

And hoary dews are slow to melt.

By the same fire to boil their pottage,

Two poor old dames, as I have known,

Will often live in one small cottage;

But she, poor woman! housed alone.

'T was well enough when summer came,

The long, warm, lightsome summer day,

Then at her door the scanty dame

Would sit, as any linnet gay.

But when the ice our streams did fetter,

Oh, then how her old bones would shake!

You would have said, if you had met her,

'T was a hard time for Goody Blake.

Her evenings then were dull and dead:

Sad case it was, as you may think,

For very cold to go to bed,

And then for cold not sleep a wink.


O joy for her! whene'er in winter

The winds at night had made a rout;

And scattered many a lusty splinter,

And many a rotten bough about.

Yet never had she, well or sick,

As every man who knew her says,

A pile beforehand, turf or stick,

Enough to warm her for three days.


Now, when the frost was past enduring,

And made her poor old bones to ache,

Could anything be more alluring

Than an old hedge to Goody Blake?

And now and then, it must be said,

When her old bones were cold and chill,

She left her fire, or left her bed,

To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.

Now Harry he had long suspected

This trespass of old Goody Blake;

And vowed that she should be detected—

That he on her would vengeance take;

And oft from his warm fire he'd go,

And to the fields his road would take;

And there at night, in frost and snow,

He watched to seize old Goody Blake.

And once behind a rick of barley,

Thus looking out did Harry stand;

The moon was full and shining clearly,

And crisp with frost the stubble land.

—He hears a noise—he's all awake—

Again?—on tiptoe down the hill

He softly creeps—'t is Goody Blake;

She's at the hedge of Harry Gill!

Right glad was he when he beheld her;

Stick after stick did Goody pull:

He stood behind a bush of elder,

Till she had fill'd her apron full

When with her load she turned about

The by-way back again to take;

He started forward with a shout,

And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.

And fiercely by the arm he took her,

And by the arm he held her fast,

And fiercely by the arm he shook her,

And cried, "I've caught you then at last!"

Then Goody, who had nothing said,

Her bundle from her lap let fall,

And kneeling on the sticks she prayed

To God that is the judge of all.

She prayed, her withered hand uprearing,

While Harry held her by the arm—

"God, who art never out of hearing,

Oh may he never more be warm!"

The cold, cold moon above her head,

Thus on her knees did Goody pray;

Young Harry heard what she had said,

And icy cold he turned away.

He went complaining all the morrow

That he was cold and very chill:

His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow,

Alas! that day for Harry Gill!

That day he wore a riding-coat,

But not a whit the warmer he:

Another was on Thursday bought;

And ere the Sabbath he had three.

'T was all in vain, a useless matter,

And blankets were about him pinned;

Yet still his jaws and teeth they chatter,

Like a loose casement in the wind.

And Harry's flesh it fell away;

And all who see him say 't is plain,

That, live as long as live he may,

He never will be warm again.

No word to any man he utters,

A-bed or up, to young or old;

But ever to himself he mutters,

"Poor Harry Gill is very cold!"

A-bed or up, by night or day,

His teeth they chatter, chatter still.

Now think, ye farmers all, I pray,

Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill!

William Wordsworth


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