Grasshoppers chirp on the brace;
Briars drop berries blood-red
Into the mouldering void of the race;
Green mosses flourish on cutting and face;
Children speak softly, with dread,
When they tread
In this desolate place of the dead.
‘Tum on!’ said Tip, ‘here's a nest!’
Looking behind as he ran.
‘No,’ said his brother, expanding his chest,
‘I like to play at pro’pectin’ the best’—
Thumping a rusty old pan;
Then began
To wash up a dish like a man.
‘Tum on! Here’s four little eggs!
Do tum!’—he whimpers his lip:
A-tremble his eyes, wet by tears as he begs,
And sharp briars are scratching his legs.
A branch strikes his face like a whip;
Then a slip—
And a shaft swallows poor little Tip!
Peering and catching his breath,
Tuck felt his little heart swell:
Nothing at all could he see underneath—
P’r’aps poor old Tippy had gone to his death—
Would it hurt him if he fell?
Who could tell
The depth of that horrible well?
