



Produced by Jason Isbell, Robert Cicconetti, David Garcia
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net











Ballad of the Lost Hare

By Margaret Sidney.

DESIGNS FURNISHED BY IDA B. ROBERTS.

  D. Lothrop & Co. Boston.
  H. BENCKE, LITH. N.Y.

COPYRIGHTED 1882 BY D. LOTHROP & CO.


[Illustration: (Front Cover)
  Ballad of the Lost Hare
  By Margaret Sidney.
  DESIGNS FURNISHED BY IDA B. ROBERTS.
  D. Lothrop & Co. Boston.
  H. BENCKE, LITH. N.Y.]


[Illustration: (frontispiece)
  BALLAD
  OF THE
  LOST HARE
  BY
  MARGARET SIDNEY
  COPYRIGHTED 1882 BY D. LOTHROP & CO.
  H. BENCKE, LITH. N.Y.]




INTRODUCTION.


                I.                                          VI.

       Far from wild,                                Once he fled,
         Far from wood,                                Twice he fled,
       In a field                                    Over meadow
         Rich and good;                                And garden bed.


                        II.                     VII.

                Near to hill,            Thrice he had
                  And winding glade,       The rarest fun,
                Lived the naughtiest     Fourth was just
                  Hare e'er made.          Another one.


               III.                                       VIII.

       Father scolded,                               Mad the races,
         Mother whipped,                               Jolly the Hare,
       But every day                                 Little did he
         Away he slipped.                              Reck or care.


                          IV.                    IX.

                 Brothers three,         The winds might blow,
                   And sisters two,        The waters flow,
                 Cried and cried         Over the hills
                   As off he flew.         Away he'd go!


                 V.                                        X.

 Sore--sore--sore was the sobbing,       "Don't you come home," the father said,
   Wild--wild--wild was his race;        "Until you can stay in your little bed;
 Only the woods to echo his footsteps,   One more race and you keep away,
   Only the winds--his hiding-place.     Though you should beg and cry all day."


XI.

  Alack!
    He never came back;
      That swift-footed Hare,
        That knowing Hare,
          That beast who didn't
            Reck nor care.
              Whether swallowed alive,
                Or hung on a rail,
                  Or dancing along
                    The waters pale,
                      Or running, or walking,
                        Or leaping a star,
                          He was gone so long,
                            And he went so far,
                              That the winds forgot
                                His very name;
                                  And lost to memory,
                                    Love, and fame,
                                      He became in verity
                                        The LOST HARE!


[Illustration: Portrait of the Lost Hare]




ADVENTURES.


  Little Bossy Whitefoot
    Grazing in a field,
  Eating all the green grass,
    Such a tender yield;
  Dreaming of the days,
    When she would be a cow,
  How she wished that very time
    Would come just now.


                    She shook her frisky feet,
                      And wrinkled up her nose,
                    And tossed her pretty head,
                      Then trotted on her toes.
                    When--looking down, she saw
                      Two frightened eyes,
                    And there the Hare and Bossy stood
                      In mutual surprise!


                                      "I'm sorry I have scared you,"
                                        Said this Hare considerate,
                                      "Good bye, I must be going,
                                        For it is very late."
                                      He turned him on his long legs,
                                        He scuttled thro' the glade,
                                      He held his head as if, forsooth,
                                        HE never were afraid!

[Illustration: The Lost Hare meets Little Bossy Whitefoot]


  The next he knew, with accent bold,
  A dread voice cried--"Intruder--HOLD!"


                    "I'll butt you," cried a Goat,
                      "If you don't get off my rock."
                    The Hare could scarcely breathe,
                      So frightful was the shock.
                    He gasped; he tried to utter
                      A word with meaning fraught,
                    But to save his neck he couldn't
                      Control a single thought.


                                      The Goat was tired of waiting,
                                        He started for the Hare,
                                      Only to find a vacant place,
                                        Only to stand and stare.
                                      For a flash of flying feet,
                                        A glimpse of a gleaming eye,
                                      Was all that marked this Hero,
                                        Who'd rather run than die.


[Illustration: The Lost Hare meets the Goat]


  And now a neigh and a snort tremendous,
  Aroused an echo most stupendous!

    A Mustang gay,
      A Mustang free,
        Looked at the little Hare
          Carelessly.
            Looked--then curvetted,
              Inviting to play,
                But the Hare almost trembled,
                  Its life away.

                        "No--No--No!" he cried,
                          In wild protesting,
                            "I haven't come for play,
                              Nor any jesting."
                                "Ha--Ha!" laughed the Mustang,
                                  And then "Hey? Hey?"
                                    And kicking up his heels,
                                      He began to neigh.

  The Hare stole off,
    In fact, he RAN
      As he hadn't run before
        From beast or man.
          He tucked under fences,
            He skipped around trees,
              He didn't pause to take a look,
                Or even stop to sneeze.


[Illustration: The Lost Hare meets the Mustang]


  When a horrible bellow,
    A wheeze and a snort
  Came close to his ears
    With loudest report
  And a Bull most furious,
  With rage not spurious,
  Dashed up with a curious
    Bow and a stare.

                Little Hare panting--
                Angry Bull ranting--
                  Ah--what a race!
                Oh, and he'll catch him,
                Then he'll despatch him,
                  Pitiful chase!

                        'Twas a hair-breadth escape--I tell you true!
                        I'd have given a dime to have been there in time
                        To see them sweep by--those two!


[Illustration: The Lost Hare meets the Bull]


  Three little Lambs
    Playing in clover
  Called to the frightened Hare
    Over and over.

              "Come with us--into this
                Pretty, pretty spot?"
              Gasped he flying past,
                "I'd--rather--not!"

                            "RATHER NOT, INDEED!"
                              Each Lamb rubbed his eye,
                            Then stared in calm disdain,
                              To see him onward fly.

                                          "He may"--then all exclaimed
                                            In accents terse,
                                          "Go further if he cares,
                                            And fare much worse."


[Illustration: The Lost Hare meets the three little Lambs]


  Whish--whirr! on his track
  Fast at his heels comes a flying pack!
    Baying, snapping,
    Howling, yelling!
  Can he get away?
  There is no telling!

                Fly little swift feet over dale and hill,
                Take him dashing, flashing by the mill;
                Tips of his toes, twinkle, twinkle fast,
                Don't let the dogs eat him up at last!

                          DON'T let the hungry, cruel, cruel jaws
                          Snap off his pretty little velvet paws,
                          Tear off his ears in terrible sport--
                          DON'T let the naughty little thing be caught!


[Illustration: The Lost Hare meets the Pack of Dogs]


  Ah!

                A hole--a hole!
                  In he goes!
                    The dogs tumble up
                      To stare at his toes.
                        They gnash their jaws,
                          And bewail their fate;
                            But to eat little Hare
                              Must wait--must wait!


[Illustration: The Lost Hare dives into the hole]




CONCLUSION.


  Had ever a beast such mad career?
    Such a hare-brained race,
    Such a long, long chase,
  As this silly little Hare recorded here?

          This Hare, who wouldn't stop to fight,
          Who ran away both day and night
          Who put himself delightedly
          Among the best of company,

                  Who acting soon a reckless part,
                  Then posted off with all his heart;
                  Forever he's compelled to roam,
                  He never can enjoy a home.

                          Hark! do you think that's rustling wind?
                          Oh no, its nothing of the kind;
                          It's this poor, homeless, restless Hare
                          Rushing here, there, and everywhere.

                                  List! do you hear the rain-drops fall
                                  In gentle shower from tree-top tall?
                                    Oh me!
                                    Oh my!
                                  It's poor Hare pattering by.


  By the light of the silver moon--moon--moon,
  He runs to the rhythm of a dismal tune;
  In the gay merry shine of a summer day,
  He still is running, away--away.

          In cold, in heat, in rain, in snow,
          This poor little creature must go--must go;
          Perhaps if you're there in time you'll see
            This wandering Hare,
            This miserable Hare,
          Rush over the hill-top, bleak and bare.

                  Do you suppose he wishes his home to see,
                  His sisters two, and his brothers three?
                  Would he like to lie down in his own little bed?
                  And does he recall what his father said?

                          And long for his mother to tuck him up tight,
                          Just as she used to, every night?
                            Who can say
                            As alway
                          He goes on--and on--and on--and on----

[Illustration: The Lost Hare]


[Illustration: (Back Cover)]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Transcriber's Note: Library of Congress Permalink for this title:
http://lccn.loc.gov/16001245]






End of Project Gutenberg's Ballad of the Lost Hare, by Margaret Sidney

*** 