 Tale 1 of Mother Goose for Grown-Ups This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Mother Goose for Grown-Ups by Guy Wetmore Carroll To Constance In memory of other days, dear critic, when your whispered praise cheered on the limping pen, how short, how sweet those younger hours, how bright our suns, how few our showers, alas, we knew not then. If but long leagues across the seas, the trivial charm of rhymes like these shall serve to link us twain and instant in the olden spell that once we knew and loved so well, I have not worked in vain. End of To Constance Tale 2 of Mother Goose for Grown-Ups This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Mother Goose for Grown-Ups by Guy Wetmore Carroll The admirable assertiveness of Jilted Jack, a noble and generous mind, was Jack's. Folks knew he would not talk behind their backs, but when some maiden, fresh and young, at Jack, a bit of banter flung, she soon discovered that his tongue was sharp as any axe. A flirt of most engaging wiles was Jill. On Jack she lavished all her smiles, until her slave, and he was not the first, of love-sick swains, became the worst. His glance a strong box might have burst. His sighs were fit to kill. One April morning, clear and fair, when both, of staying home and idling there, in sloth, were weary Jack remarked to Jill, Oh what's the sense in sitting still? Let's mount the slope of yonder hill. And she was nothing loath. But as she answered, what's the use? The gruff, young Swain replied, Oh there's excuse, enough. Your doting parent's water lack. We'll fill a pail and bring it back. The reader will perceive that Jack was putting up a bluff. Thus hand in hand the tempting hill they scaled, and Jack proposed a kiss to Jill, and failed. One backward start, one step too bold, and down the hill the couple rolled, resembling, if truth be told, a luggage train derailed. With eyes ablaze with anger she exclaimed, Well who'd have thought you ought to be? Ashamed. You quite forget yourself. It's plain. So I'll forget you too. Insane. Young man I'll say, Of widows' aim. Her German might be blamed. But Jack, whose linguist pride was pricked to shine, asked, Mein kunigen will nicht, be mine. And when she answered, Nein, in spleen, he cried, Then in the soup to reen, you'll stay, you're not the only queen, discarded for a nine. A moral's made for Maiden's young and small. If you would in a foreign tongue, enthrall, lead off on daunted in a swede, or Spanish speech, and you'll succeed. But they who win a German lead, no favor win at all. End of The admirable assertiveness of Jilted Jack. Section 3. The blatant brutality of Little Bo Peep. From Mother Goose for Grown Ups. Mother Goose for Grown Ups. Mother Goose for Grown Ups. By Guy Wetmore Carroll. The blatant brutality of Little Bo Peep. Though she was only a shepherdess, tending the meekest of sheep, never was African Leopardess crosser than Little Bo Peep. Quite apathetic, impassable people described her as that wayward, contentious, irascible, testy, cantankerous brat. Yet, as she dozed in a grotto-like sort of kind of a nook, she was charmingly Watto-like, what with her sheep and her crook. She is a dryad, or nymph, any casual passer would think. Poets pronounced her a symphony, all in the pale list of pink. Thus it was not enigmaticle that the young shepherd who first found her asleep in ecstactical size of felicity burst. Such was his sudden beatitude that, as he gazed at her so, daftness gave vent to this platitude. My, ain't she elegant, though? Roused from some dream of Arcadia, Little Bo Peep, with a start, answered him, I ain't afraid of you. Perhaps you imagine you're smart. Daftness protested impulsively, blushing as red as a rose. All was in vain. She convulsively punched the young man in the nose. All of it's true. Every word of it I was not present to peep, but if you ask how I heard of it, please to remember the sheep. There is no need of excuse. You will see how such scandals occur. If you recall Mother Goose, you will know what tale-bearers they were. Moral. This pair, irreclaimable, might have made Seraphim weep. But who can pick the most blamable? Both saw a little bow-peep, end of the blatant brutality of Little Bo Peep. Read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California, for LibriVox, fall 2008. Mother Goose for Grownups by Guy Wetmore Carroll The commendable castigation of Old Mother Hubbard. She was one of those creatures whose features are hard beyond any reclaim. And she loved in a hovel to grovel, and she hadn't assent to her name. She owned neither gallance nor talents. She barred extensively, too, from all of her dozens of cousins, and never refunded a sue. Yet all they said in abuse of her was she is prouder than Lucifer. That I must say, without meaning to blame, is always the way, with that kind of a dame. There never was Jolly or Collie than Old Mother Hubbard had found. Though cheaply she bought him, she'd taught him to follow her meekly around. But though she would lick him and kick him, it never had any effect. He always was howling and growling. But goodness, what could you expect? Collies were never too flourish meant, lest they had plenty of nourishment. All that he had were the feathers she'd pluck, off an occasional chicken or duck. The Collie was barred in the garden. He howled, and he wailed, and he whined. The neighbors indignant, malignant, petitions unanimous signed. The nuisance grows nightly, politely, they wrote. It's an odious hound, and either you'll fill him or kill him, or else he must go to the pound. For if this howling infernally is to continue nocturnally, pardon us, man, if we seem to be curt, somebody's apt to get horribly hurt. Mother Hubbard cried loudly and proudly, Land's sakes, but you give yourselves heirs. I'll take the law to you and sue you. The neighbors responded, Who cares? We none of us care if the sheriff lock every man jack of us up. We won't be repining and fining, so long as we're rid of the pup. They then proceeded to mount a sign, bearing this ominous counter-sign. Freeman, the moment has come to protest, and old Mother Hubbard, the lendom, est. They marched to her gateway and straightway. They trampled all over her lawn. Most rudely they harried and carried her round on a rail until dawn. They marred her and jarred her and tarred her and feathered her just as they should. Of speech they bereft her and left her, with now do you think you'll be good? The moral's a charmingly pleasing one, while we would deprecate teasing one. Still, when a dame has politeness rebuffed, she certainly ought to be collared and cuffed. End of the commendable castigation of old Mother Hubbard. The Disappointing Discovery of Little Jack Horner From Mother Goose for Grownups This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. Read by Dennis Sayers Mother Goose for Grownups By Guy Wetmore Carroll The Disappointing Discovery of Little Jack Horner A knack all most incredible for dealing with an edible Jack Horner's elder sister was acknowledged to display. She labored hard and zealously, but always guarded jealously the secrets of the dishes she invented every day. She'd take some indigestible, unpopular commestible, and to its better nature would so tenderly appeal that Jack invoked a venison upon a haunch of venison, when, really, she was serving him a little leg of veal. Jack said she was a miracle. The word was not satirical, for daily, climbing upward, she excelled herself at last. The acme of facility, the zenith of ability, was what she gave her brother for his Christmas Day, repast. He dined that evening eagerly, and anything but meagerly, and when he'd finished, had his salad and his quart of extra dry. With sisterly bedignity, and just a touch of dignity, she placed upon the table an unutterable pie. Unflagging pertinacity, and technical sagacity, long nights of sleepless vigil, and long days of constant care had been involved in making it, improving it, and baking it, until, of other pies, it was the wonder and despair. So princely, and so prominent, so solemn, so predominant, it looked upon the table that, with fascinated eye, the youth, with sudden wonder, struck, electrified, and thunderstruck, could only stammer stupidly, Oh, golly, what a pie! In view of his satiety, it almost seemed impiety to carve this crowning triumph of a culinary life. But, braced by his avidity, with sudden intrepidity he broke its dome, imposing with a common kitchen knife. Ah, hideous fatality, for when, with eager palate, he commenced to eat, he happened, on an accident, uncouth. And cried, with stifled moan, of it, one plum I tried, the stone of it had never been extracted, I've broke my wisdom tooth. Jack's sister wept effusively, but, loudly and abusively, his unreserved opinion of her talents he proclaimed. He called her names like driveler, and simpleton, and sniveller, and others which, to mention, I am really too ashamed. The moral, it is saddening, embarrassing, and maddening, a stone to strike, in what you thought was paced. One thing alone, then, this mischance is crueler, and that is for a jeweler, to strike, but paced, in what he fondly, thought to be a stone. End of the discouraging discovery of Little Jack Horner, read by Dennis Sayers for LibriVox, fall 2008. The embarrassing episode of Little Miss Maffette. Little Miss Maffette discovered a taffette, which never occurred to the rest of us. And, as it was a June day, and just about noon day, she wanted to eat, like the best of us. Her diet was way, and I hastened to say it is wholesome, and people grow fat on it. The spot being lonely, the lady not only discovered the taffette, she set on it. A rivulet gabbled beside her and babbled, as rivulets always are thought to do, and dragonflies ported around and coveted, as poets say dragonflies ought to do. When glancing aside for a moment, she spied a horrible sight that brought fear to her. A hideous spider was sitting beside her, and most unavoidably near to her. Albeit unsightly, this creature politely said, Madam, I earnestly vowed to you. I'm penitent that I did not bring my hat. I should otherwise certainly vow to you. Though anxious to please, he was so ill at ease that he lost all his sense of propriety, and grew so inept that he clumsily stepped in her plate, which is barred in society. This curious error completed her terror. She shattered, and growing much paler, not only left taffette, but dealt him a buffet which doubled him up in a sailor-naught. It should be explained that, at this point, he was pained. He cried, I have vexed you no doubt of it. Your fist like a truncheon. You're still in my luncheon, was all that she answered. Get out of it! And the moral is this. Be it madame or miss, to whom you have something to say. You are only observed when you get in the curd, but you rude when you get in the way. End of the embarrassing episode of Little Miss Maffette, recording by Eswa in Belgium in September 2008. Tales 7 of mother goose for grown-ups. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Didier. Mother goose for grown-ups by Guy Wetmore Carroll. The fearful finale of the irascible mouse. Upon a stairway built of brick, a pleasant featured clock from time to time would murmur tick and vary it with tock. Although no great intelligence there lay in either world, they were not meant to give offence to anyone who heard. Within the pantry of the house, among some piles of cheese, there dwelt an irritable mouse, extremely hard to please. His appetite was most immense. Each day he ate a wedge of stilted cheese. In consequence, his nerves were all on edge. With ill-concealed impatience he, upon his morning walk, had heard the clock inceasingly, unnottenessily toke. Until his rage burst every bound, he gave a fretful shout, Well, Psyche's alive. It's time I found what all this talk's about. With all the admirable skill that marks the rodent race, the mouse ran up the clock until he crept behind the face. And then, with word that no one thought to use and scornful squeals, he cried aloud, Just what I thought, great oaf, you're full of wheels. The timepiece sternly sailed, half done, and through the silence house it struck emphatically one. But that one was the mouse. To earth the prowling run fell in terror for his life and turned to flee, but sad to tell, theirs to the farmer's wife. She did not faint, she did not quell, she did not cry out, scat! She simply took him by the tail and gave him to the cat. And with a stern triumphant look, she watched him cloud and cleft and with some blotting paper took up all that there was left. The moral, in a farmer's home run down his herds, his flocks, run down his crops, run down his loam, but when it comes to clocks, pray leave them ticking everyone in peace upon their shells. When running down is to be done, the clocks run down themselves. And of the fearful finale of the irascible mouse. Tale 8 of Mother Goose for Grown-Ups. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Mother Goose for Grown-Ups by Guy Wetmore Carroll. The Gastronomic Guile of Simple Simon. Conveniently near to where Young Simple Simon dwelt, there was to be a county fair, and Simple Simon felt, that to the fair he opt to go, in all his Sunday clothes and so, determined to behold the show, he put them on and went. One half his clothes was borrowed, and the other half was lent. He heard a far the cheerful sound of horns that people blew, saw wooden horses swing around a circle, two and two. Beheld balloons arise, and if, he scented with a gentle sniff, the smells of pies, what is the death? For rents to me or you. You cannot say my verses false, because I know it's true. As Simple Simon nearer came, to these attractive smells, avoiding every little game men played with wama-chels, he felt a sudden longing rise, the sparkle in his eager eyes, betrayed the fact he yearned for pies, the eye the secret tells. To his known the pie of country fairs, all other pies excels. So when he saw upon the road, some fifty feet away, a pie man, Simple Simon strode, toward him shouting, hey, what kinds, as lordly as a prince? The pie man said, pumpkin, quince, blueberry, lemon, peach, and mince. And showing his array, he added, won't you try one, sir? They're very nice today. Now Simon's taste was most profuse, and so by way of start, he ate two cakes, a charlotte rousse, six buns the better part, of one big gingerbread, a pair of ladyfingers and a clare, and ten assorted pies, and there his hand upon his heart, he paused to choose between an apple-dumpling and a tart. Observing that upon his tray, his goods were growing few, the pie man cried, I beg to say, that patrons such as you, one does not meet in many a moon, pray, won't you try this macaroon? But soon suspicious changed his tune, continuing, what is due, I beg respectfully to add, a dollar twenty-two. Then simple Simon put a curb upon his appetite, and turning with an air superb, he suddenly took flight, while o'er his shoulder this absurd and really most offensive word, the trusting pie man shortly heard, to soothe his bitter plight. Perhaps I should have said before your wares are out of sight. The moral is a simple one, but still of consequence. We've seen that Simon's sense of fun was almost too intense. Though blaming his deceitful guys, we with the pie man sympathize. The latter we must criticize, because he was so dense. He might have known from what he ate that Simon had no sense, and of the gastronomic guile of simple Simon. Recording by David Federman. Mother Goose for Grownups. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Toby Parity. Mother Goose for Grownups by Guy Wetmore Carroll. The harmonious heedlessness of Little Boy Blue. Composing scales beside the rails that flanked a field of corn, a farmer's boy with vicious joy performed upon a horn. The vagrant airs, the fragrant airs around the field that strayed took flight before the fragrant airs that noisome urchin played. He played with care, the maiden's prayer. He played God Save the Queen, D'Ivoque d'Amrein and Audlangzein and Waring of the Green, with futile toots and brutal toots and shrill chromatic scales and utterly and noodle toots and agonizing wales. The while he played around him strayed and calmly chewed the cud. Some thirty-nine assorted kind, all ankle deep in mud. They stamped about and tramped about that mud till all the troop made noises as they ramped about like schoolboys eating soup. Still growing bored with one accord they broke the fence forlorn. The field was doomed, the cows consumed two-thirds of all the corn, and viciously maliciously went prancing o'er the loam. That landscape expeditiously resembled harvest home. Most idle ass of all your class, the farmer said with scorn, Just see, my son, what you have done, the cows are in the corn. Oh, drat, he said, the brat, he said, the cowherd seemed to rouse. My friend, it's worse than that, he said, the corn is in the cows. The moral lies before our eyes, when tending kind and corn, Don't spend your noons in tooting toons upon a blatant horn. Or scaling and assailing, and with energy immense, Your cows will take a railing, and the farmer take a fence. End of The Harmonious Heedlessness of Little Boy Blue Recording by Choby Parody Excusable Improbity of Tom the Piper's Son A Paris butcher kept a shop upon the river's bank, Where you could buy a mutton chop, or two for half a franc. The little shop was spruce and neat, In view of all who trod the street the decorated joints of meat Were hung up in a rank. This gallic butcher led a life of highly moral tone. He never raised his voice in strife, he never drank alone. He simply sat outside his door and slept from eight o'clock to four. The more he slept, so much the more to slumber he was prone. One day outside his shop he put a pig he meant to stuff, And carefully around each foot he pinned a paper ruff. But while a watch he should have kept, His habit conquered and he slept, And for a thief who was adept that surely was enough. A Scottish piper dwelt nearby, Whose one ungracious son beheld that pig, And murmured, Why, no sooner said than done, It seems to me that this I need. And grasping it with all his speed across the pond Is unbelieve he started on a run. Then turning sharply to the right, without a thought of risk, He fled, it is there to call his flight inordinately brisk. But now the town was all a stir, In vain his feet he strove to spur, They caught him shouting, Oh, l'heure, beside the obelisk! The breathless butcher cried, Ah, mort! The crowd said, Conspué! And some, ah, bah! And half a score responded, Vive l'armée! While grim gendarm with piercing eye And stern remarks about cannae, The pig abstracted on the sly. Such is the gallic way. The piper's offspring, his defeat deep-rooted in his heart, A revolutionary sheet proceeded then to start. Thenceforward every evening he, in leaders, Skazed the ministry, And wished he could accomplish the return of Bonaparte. The moral is that when the press begins to rave and shout, It's often difficult to guess what it is all about. The editor we strive to pin, But we can never find him in. What startling knowledge we should win If we could find him out. End of the inexcusable improbity of Tom the Piper's son. Recording by Ruth Golding Tale 11 of Mother Goose for grown-ups This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, Please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Gili van Walchem Mother Goose for grown-ups By Guy Whiteman Carroll The judicious judgment of quiet country marry. Though marry had the kind of face The rudas went with softly blow on, Though she was full of simple grays, Sweet, amiable and kind and so on, I would not have you understand that she was a meek. You'd be mistaken. She worked at logarithms, And her favourite essayist was Bacon. And though not positive, I think she'd heard about Savonarola And study Maurice Matlinck And read the works of Amyle Zola And Emerson's and some of Kant's And all of mine and Schopenhau's. But still she cultivated plants And spent her life intending flowers. She had a little hatch of bogs, As alias and a bat of Tanty, A double row of hollyhocks And every different kind of panty. And though so innocent of look, She'd love us by the scores and dozens, And learned by talking with the cook To tell her friends that they were her cousins. The first was French, the second Greek. The third was born upon the mercy. The fourth one came from Mozambique. The fifth one came from the Isle of Jersey. I cannot tell about the rest, But judging from their dress and faces, They came from North, East, South and West, But all of them from different places. Now, such was Mary's sense of pride, Despite as their fervent protestations, Before she vowed to be a bride, She set at them all examinations. She asked each one to tell The date of Washington and Cleopatra, Name Dickens' novels, And locate the site of Yonkers and Tumatra. But so chanced that, From a score of suitors resolute and haughty, One gained a mark of sixty-four, And all the rest were under forty. One serene alone, the rest outclassed, Because of one audacious guess he, The strict examination passed, When Mary asked the date of Cressy. The moral shows that when a maid, Her life devotes into a garden, When horticulture's skills displayed, Her heart she does not dare to harden. So, crafty suitors, Scorn the bates, And you may lay this flattering balm To your souls, If you but get your dates, The chances are you'll get the balm, too. And of the judicious judgment Of quite country Mary. Of Charles Augustus Sprague. A child of nature curious, Was Charles Augustus Sprague. He made his parents spurious, Because he was so vague. Although his age was nearly two, Eleven words were all in you. These sounded much as sounds of the Dutch, That spoke another hag. A few of his orella, Tis just a shoe to vow, He called his mother a tata, And moo he dubbed a cow. Nor was it altogether plain, Why choo-choo meant a railway train. He called a cat meow, And that no purist would allow. Within his father's orchard, There stood for all to see, With branches bent and tortured, An ancient apple tree. That Charles Augustus Sprague, My drows, his mother on its way in bows, His cradle hung, and while it swung, She sang with energy. A sound blow arising, One day the branches broke, With suddenness surprising, The sleeping babe awoke, And crashing down to earth he fared. Ah me, that I should have to tell The words that mild and genial child On this occasion spoke. His face convulsed and checkered, With passion and with tears, He blotted out the record Of both his pitchless ears. His mother stupefied, aghast, Her Charles Augustus speak at last. He opened wide his mouth And cried these ill-conditioned sneers. Sapristi accidenti! Perchance my speech is late, But be she two or twenty, An income poop I hate. What idiot said that woman splanned To warn, to comfort, and command. His words acquenched, Excuse my French, je dis que tu m'embêtes. The moral, common clocks we find, In silence take a silent wind, But only heroes as we know, In silence take a silent blow. And of the linguistic linger Of Charles Augustus pray. Tale number thirteen of Mother Goose for grown-ups. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, Please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Jessica Louise. Mother Goose for grown-ups by Guy Wetmore Carroll. The mysterious misapprehension concerning a man in our town. There was a man in our town, Half beggar, half rap scallion, Who just because his eyes were brown Was thought to be Italian. And though with much insistence he said That people aired, and bitterly to Italy He frequently referred, The false report, as is the way of false reports, Had come to stay. So everyone who'd been to Rome by aid Of cooks or gazes would call upon him At home to flaunt Italian phrases. Capite questa lingua? The inquiry would be Pochissimo, benissimo, vi prego, ditemi. Siete voi contento qua, lontano dall'Italia? The victim, plunged in deep disgust, Grew nervous, could not slumber. Said he, I'm called Italian Just because my eyes are umber. And if this persecution is ever to be stopped Some stern and stoic, hard, heroic course I must adopt. And so to everyone's surprise He calmly scratched out both his eyes. The neighbour said, So strange a thing might seem to be an omen. We thought his wits were wandering, But now we know they're Roman. And so at him by legions, By bevy's hosts and herds, Professors, purists, tramps and tourists Screamed Italian words. Perceiving all he'd done was vain. He scratched his eyesight in again. The moral. If your neighbours say your one thing or another You'll find there isn't any way They're prejudiced to smother. What matter if they think you from Italy or Greece? I beg you, treasure no displeasure. Bow and hold your peace. Like Omar underneath the bow You'll find there's paradise anow. End of the mysterious misapprehension Concerning a man in our town. Recording by Jessica Louise Tale 14 of Mother Goose for Grown-ups This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Mother Goose for Grown-ups by Guy Wetmore Carroll. The opportune overthrow of Humpty Dumpty. Upon a wall of medium height Bombastically sat a boastful boy And he was quite unreasonably fat. And what aroused the most intense Disgusting passers-by Was his abnormal impedance Inhaling them with high While by his kicks he loosened bricks The girls to terrify. When thus for half an hour or more He'd played his idle tricks And wounded something like a score Of people with the bricks Up across from where he sat remarked, Well, this has got to stop. Then snatching up his hat And saling out began to shout, Look here, come down from that. The boastful boy to laugh began As laughs of upbeat clown And cried, it takes a bigger man Than you to call me down. This wall is smooth, this wall is high And safe from everyone. No acrobac do what I have been And gone and done. This reviled, the other smiled And said, just wait, my son. Then to the interested throng That watched across the way He showed with smiling face Along and slender Henry Clay Remarking, in upon my shelves All kinds of coal there are Step in me, friends, and help yourselves And he, who first can jar That wretched urchin off his birch Will get this good cigar. The throng this task Is stained but through with heart and soul Till round the youth there raged A rain of lumps of kennel coal. He dodged for all that he was worth Till one bombarder deft Triumphant brought him down To earth a vanity bereft. I see, said he, That this is the cold day When I get left. The moral is that fuel Can become the tool of fate When thrown upon a little man Instead of on a grate. This story proves That when a brat imagine He's admired and acts in such a fashion That he makes his neighbours tired. That little fool Who's much too cool Gets warmed when coal is fired. End of The Opportune Overthrow Of Humpty Dumpty Tale 15 of Mother Goose The Grown-Ups This is a LibriVox recording The LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information Or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Ruth Golden Mother Goose for Grown-Ups By Guy Wetmore Carroll The preposterous performance Of an old lady of Banbury Within a little attic A retiring but erratic Old lady, 6 and 80 To be frank Made sources out of cranberry The town of Banbury Depositing the proceeds in the bank Her tendency to thriftiness Her scorn of any shiftiness Built a bustling business And in course of time Her secret yearnings were revealed And all her earnings She squandered in the purchase Of a horse I am not in a hurry For a wagonet or sorry She said In fact I much prefer To ride And in spite of all premonishment To everyone's astonishment The gay old lady did so And astride Now this was most periculous But what was more ridiculous The horse she bought Had pulled a car And so the lazy steed To cheer up She'd a bell upon her stirrup And rang it twice To make the creature go I blush the truth to utter But it seems a pound Of butter and thirty eggs She had to sell, of course In scorn of ways pedestrian This factuous equestrian To mark it gaily started On the horse Becoming too importunate to hasten The unfortunate old lady Plied her charger with a birch In view of all her cronies This stupidest of ponies She fell flat before the Presbyterian church If it should chance that one set A red Italian sunset Beside a beardsly poster And a plaid like any canny highlanders Beside a Fiji islander's Most variegated costume And should add a turner composition And with clever intuition To cap the climax Pile upon them all The Aurora Borealis Then veracity, not malice Might claim a close resemblance To her fall At sight of her disaster With arnica and plaster The neighbours ran up eagerly to aid They cried Don't do that often, ma'am Or you will need a coffin, ma'am You've worked your solar plexus We're afraid We hope your maritidomal Let you notice what an omelet You've made in half a chiffy It is great She only clutched her bonnet She had fallen flat upon it And answered Will you tell me if it's straight? The morals rather curious For often the penurious Are apt to think old horses of account If you would ride Then seek fine examples Of the equine And don't look on a molehill As a mount End of the preposterous Performance of an old lady Of Banbury Recording by Ruth Golding Section 16 The Quixotic Quest Of Three Blind Mice From Mother Goose For Grownups This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information Or to volunteer Visit LibriVox.org Mother Goose For Grownups By Guy Wetmore Carroll The Quixotic Quest Of Three Blind Mice A maiden mouse Of an arrogant mind Had three little swains And all were blind The reason for this I do not know But I think it was Love that made them so For without Demure they bowed to her They bowed to her Though she treated them all With a high hauteur She ruled them Schooled them Frequently fooled them Snubbed, tormented, and ridiculed them Mice as a rule Are much like men So they swallowed their pride And called again The maiden mouse Of an arrogant mind To morbid romance Was much inclined The reason for this I have not learned But I think by novels Her head was turned She said that The chap who dared to nap One hour inside of the farmers Trapped might gain her Rain her Holy in chain her Woo her Win her And thence retain her Hope ran high In each suitors breast And all determined To stand the test The maiden mouse Of an arrogant mind Laughed when she saw them thus confined The reason for this I can't proclaim But I know some girls Who'd have done the same As thus they kept To their word and slept The farmer's wife To the pantry stepped She sought them, caught them Out to the light And there she taught them How that chivalry often fails By calmly Cutting off their tails The maiden mouse Of an arrogant mind Treated her swains In a way unkind The reason for this is not complex That's always the way With the tender sex With impudent hails She cried, And where are your splendid tails? She jeered so Sneered so Flouted and flared so Giggled and altogether Appeared so lacking In heart that her slaves Grew bored And threw up the sponge Of their own accord The maiden mouse Of an arrogant mind Watched and waited And peaked and pined The reason for this, I beg to state Is summed up in the words Too late The moral entwined is Love is blind But he never leaves All his wits behind You may beat him Cheat him Often defeat him Though he be true With torture treat him One of these days You'll be bereft You'll find you're left End of Quixotic Quest Of Three Blind Mice Read by Dennis Sayers In Modesto, California For LibriVox, Fall 2008 Tale 17 Of Mother Goose For grown-ups This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings Are in the public domain For more information Or to volunteer Please visit LibriVox.org Mother Goose For grown-ups By Guy Westmore Carroll Tale 17 The remarkable regimen Of the Sprat family The Sprats were four in number Including twins In quilts All day Jack carted lumber All day his wife made quilts Thus heartlessly neglected 12 hours in 24 As might have been expected The twins sat on the floor And all the buttons I should state They chanced to find They promptly ate This was not meat But still it's true We did the same when we were two The wife Whose name was Julia Maintained an ample board But one thing was peculiar Lean meat She quite a board Here also should be stated Another fact His spouse abominated The very taste of fat This contrast curious Of taste Procluded any thought of waste For all they left of any meal No self-respecting dog Would steal No generous table to hope meal No donkeys packed in tins But only bowls of oatmeal They gave the wretched twins And yet little princess pampered Had lived those babes accursed Could they have fed unhampered I have not told the worst Since nothing from the dining room Was left to feed the cook And groom It seems that these domestic cruel Were led to steal the children's grill The twins all hopped And went to the dining room And went to the dining room The twins all hoped Resigning And wounded to the core Confined themselves to dining On buttons of the floor No passionate resentment The docile babes displayed Each day In calm contentment Three hearty meals they made And daily Jack and Mrs. Fratt Ate all the lean And all the fat And every day the grooming cook The children's meal Contrived to hook But when the twins grew older As twins are up to do And shoulder touching shoulder Sat Sundays in their pew They saw no Christian glory In parting with the dine And in the opera tree Drop buttons every time Said they What's good enough for Sprats Is good enough for heath and brats I most sincerely wish I knew What was the heathen's Point of view The moral Annotates abound Of buttons in collections found Thus on the wheels Of progress go And heathens reap What Christians sow End of Tale 17 The remarkable regimen Of the Sprat family Tale 18 Of mother goose for grown-ups This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings Are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer Please visit LibriVox.org Mother goose for grown-ups By Guy Wettmore Carroll The singular sang-fois Of baby Bunting Bartholomew Benjamin Bunting Had only three passions In life And one of the trio was hunting The others his babe and his wife And always so rigid his habits He frolicked at home until two And then started hunting for rabbits And hunted till fall of the dew Belinda Bologna Bunting Thus widowed for half of the day Her duty maternal confronting With baby would patiently play When thus was her energy wasted A patented food she dispensed She had bought it the day that they pasted The posters all over her fence But Bonaparte Buckingham Bunting The infant thus blindly adored Replied to her worship by grunting Which showed he was brutally bored Twas little he cared for the troubles Of life like a crab on the sands From his sweet little mouth he blew bubbles And threatened the air with his hands Bartholomew Benjamin Bunting One night as his wife let him in Produced as the fruit of his hunting A cottontail's velvety skin Which seeing young Bonaparte wriggle He gave him without a demure And the babe with an aqueous giggle He swallowed the whole of the fur Belinda Bologna Bunting Behaved like a consummate loon Her offspring in frenzy confronting She screamed herself modelled maroon She felt of his vertebrae spinal Expecting he'd surely succumb And gave him one vigorous final Hard prod in the pit of his tum But Bonaparte Buckingham Bunting He swallowed the whole of the fur Belinda Bologna Bunting Bonaparte Buckingham Bunting At first but a trifle perplexed By a change in his manner of grunting Soon showed he was terribly vexed He displayed not a sign of repentance But spoke in a dignified tone The only consecutive sentence He uttered, twas Let me alone The moral, the parent that uses Precaution his folly regrets An infant gets all that he chooses An infant choose all that he gets And colox He constantly has him So long as his food is the best But he'll swallow with never a spasm What ostriches couldn't digest End of the singular sang-fois Of baby Bunting Recording by David Federman Till nineteen Of mother Goose for grown-ups This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer Please visit LibriVox.org Mother Goose for grown-ups By Guy Wetmore Carroll The touching tenderness Of King Karl I For hunger and thirst King Karl I Had stoicals turned disdain The food that he ordered Consistently bordered On what was described as plain Much trouble his cook ambitiously took To tickle his frugal taste But all of his savory science And slavery ended in naught But waste Said the steward The thing to tempt the king And charm his indifferent eye No doubt is a tasty Delectable pasty Make him a blackbird pie The cook at these words Baked twenty-four birds And set them before the king And the two dozen Odious, bold and melodious singers Began to sing The king in surprise said Dozens of pies in the course Of our life we've tried But never before us Was served up a chorus like this That we hear inside With a thunderous look He ordered the cook And the steward before him brought And with a beatified smile He's satisfied Both of these innocence thoughts Of Cynus the worst Said Karl I Is the barbarous ruffian That a songbird would slaughter Unless for his daughter or wife He is trimming a hat We'll punish you so for the future You'll know that for mercy And depart Observe that your lenient kind Intervenient king Has a tender heart He saw that the cook In a neighbouring brook was drowned As he quite deserved And ordered the steward at once To be skewered The steward was much unnerved It's a curious thing Said the merciful king That monarchs so tender are So oft we are affected That we have suspected That we are too kind by far The moral The mercy of men and kings Are apt to be Holy dissimilar things In spite of the merchant of Venice We're pained to know That the quality's sometimes trained End of the touching tenderness Of King Karl I Recording by Iswa in Belgium In October 2008 Tale 20 of Mother Goose For Grown Ups This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer Please visit LibriVox.org Mother Goose for Grown Ups By Guy Wetmore Carroll The unusual ubiquity Of the inquisitive gander A gander dwelt upon a farm And no one could resist him For had he died Such was his charm His neighbors would have missed him His scorn for any loud display His cheerful hissing Day by day Would win your heart in such a way You almost could have Kissed him This bird was always Nosing round Most patiently he waited Until an open door He found And then investigated He loved to poke He loved to peek In every knot hole So to speak He quickly thrust his prying beak For what was hid He hated The farm exhausted Now said he My policy's expansion When one's convinced How things should be The proper course he can't shun His mind made up He followed it Relying on his native wit And soon had wandered Bit by bit Through all his master's mansion At least he said It's not my fault If everything's not seen to I've gone from Garrett down to Vault and glanced into The lean two In every room I've chance To stop a supervising glance To drop I've looked below, I've looked On top, behind and in Between two One thing alone He found to blame As thus his time He squandered For seeing not the farmer's Dame, into her Room he wandered And mounting nimbly On the bed Why bless my careful soul He said These pillows are as hard as lead Now how come That he pondered The farmer's Dame For half an hour had watched The bird meander And finding him within her power She leaped upon the gander Why how do you do My gander coy She shouted What will be my joy To dream tonight on you, my boy? This was No baseless slander For with a stoutish Piece of string Securely was this full tide And by a leg And by a wing Unto an oaken stool tied While pinning towels Around her gown She plucked him with relentless frown And stuffed the pillows With his down And roasted him for yule tide The moral is When you explore Don't try to be superior Be cautious And retire before Your safety grows inferior Tis best to stay upon the coast Or someday you will be like most Of all that Bold exploring host That's gone to the interior And of the unusual Ubiquity of the inquisitive gander Recording by Rhonda Fetterman